The Girl In The Beret
by Measured
Summary: Ike's never liked anyone, at least not like that until he sees the pretty 'girl' at the gig they're playing. Slowly they start a tentative friendship and figure out this thing between them along the way. Hipster AU. Ike/Soren, Boyd/Mist.
1. Chapter 1

Title: The Girl In The Beret (or: Gay Hipster Love) (1 of probably 2 or 3, depending.)  
Series: FE10 (au)  
Character/Pairing: Ike/Soren main, background Boyd/Mist, Ranulf/everyone  
Summary: Soren doesn't like labels, Ike's never liked anyone, at least not like that until he sees the pretty 'girl' at the gig they're playing. Slowly they start a tentative friendship and figure out this thing between them along the way. Hipster AU. Ike/Soren, Boyd/Mist.

Author's note: split into between 2-3 parts depending on how long it gets, due to comment restrictions.

Some of the band names come from Cooleh's awesome indie band generator, while some are real indie bands. Have fun guessing which are and aren't :D

This is a (very, but look how it grew!) late birthday present for In Rain.

**.**

Soren stopped by a little thrift shop on the way home. This shop made the Salvation Army look like a designer store by comparison. People liked to throw around labels, but really Soren was just into pissing off his mother and saving money.

He was small enough that he had to dress in women's medium, which was in itself humiliating, without having to browse through clothes emblazoned with glitter and sequins around messages like _Princess_ and _Boy Candy_—and that was nothing to say of how traumatic shopping for a proper set of jeans was in the women's section.

He always expected to be challenged when he went there, but then Soren was cynical about such things–and everything–by nature. Mostly, no one asked because he looked the part. His ancestors were monstrous, and with six foot parents, he was a complete anomaly of genetics.

He'd let his hair grow to save the money on haircuts. The first time he'd tried to simply cut it himself, he'd looked like a mess and even worse _he'd started a fad._

Soren spent most of his time in libraries, reading large tomes of existential philosophy, but when he wasn't doing that, he'd hit the local concerts. Some of the local bands were passable, most weren't but when his mother would inevitably call and nag at him, he'd have a convenient excuse.

His iPod was the most expensive thing he owned, save his laptop and assorted rare tomes he'd gotten at rock bottom prices by fools who didn't even know what they were worth. It'd been a gift from his brother, Pelleas, who had more money than brains, and assumed since he went to so many concerts, he'd love it.

A girl Pelleas was currently hung up on had filled it with MP3s of bands like _Blur_ and _Page France._Soren tended to wear it wherever he went because it kept people away. People would still bug him if he was at his laptop, but with an MP3 player, they'd usually leave him alone.

Besides, the music wasn't too bad.

**.**

Soren stopped by The Listless Mourning coffeehouse, which frequented some horrifically bad poetry readings, but good prices on tea and coffee, and unlike Starbucks, they didn't have overpriced burnt coffee. It was more packed than usual, but no matter what, Soren needed his caffeine if he was going to get his studying done.

_Steal This Band _was playing tonight. Soren rolled his eyes, wondering who would be so idiotic as to name their band _that._He was answered a moment later when a blue-haired punkish looking boy with heterochromia came on the stage.

"Hey you cool cats, I'm Ranulf, the awesome bassist, and in case you're wondering-that name? All my doing. If my bro Ike here had his doing, we'd be called liiiiike _The Ribs _or something."

All the hipster girls were staring now, save for the blonde in the rainbow _Kiss Me, I'm A Lesbian _camisole, who seemed there merely to hit on other hipster girls.

Soren only showed marginal interest at the singer, who every other girl in the room seemed to deem _utterly dreamy_. He looked...like a football player, to sum it up. Blue hair, though it didn't look dyed like the bassist's. He had a strong jaw, a too-tight white shirt that showed off his physique in a distracting way, and intense blue eyes. Regardless of this, Soren did not allow himself to linger on the singer, and drew his attention back to his book of Sartre, which was suddenly far less interesting than it had been.

The band, inane title aside, wasn't too bad. The singer had a husky voice, and for all his idiocy, the bassist knew what he was doing. The drummer however, with his headband and hair that looked like a green shrub, had no real skill and might as well have been hitting pots and pans in the kitchen.

He left at the first intermission, allowing himself only one glance back towards the band. He didn't meet the gaze of the singer, and he didn't want to.

That night, he could barely focus on his books.

He blamed too much caffeine.

**.**

Ike never would sing on game days. In fact, the main reason Ike seemed to be in the band at all was to keep Boyd from getting into his little sister's pants.

"What was up back there, man? You just froze out there, and you _never _freeze up."

"I saw someone," Ike said.

"Oho? Does that mean you're finally showing interest in someone? Who was she? Was she cute?" Ranulf said eagerly. He threw his arm over Ike's shoulders.

"A girl in a beret," Ike said thoughtfully.

"Ike, my man, you'll have to be more specific than that. Half the crowd was wearing berets."

"Uh, dark long hair?" Ike supplied.

"Mmm. That narrows it down a little. Anyways, we'll go find her, right after we all go have a 'let's get shitfaced' toast."

"Why?"

"Because you showed interest! Now we can finally go clubbing and pick up girls together!" Ranulf said triumphantly.

"Uh, I don't think so," Ike said.

"Yes, but you might meet the girl again," Ranulf said teasingly. "And while you're hoping to meet her and true love and all, you can enjoy the beautiful college girls! I love you man, really, but as much as I enjoy picking up the girls that you fail to notice are shoving their breasts in your face, I'm only one man. I can only bang so many beauties at once."

"I think I'll pass," Ike said.

"You're killin' me, Ike. Killin' me," Ranulf said.

"You'll live," Ike said.

"Yeah, I've got to comfort all those girls whose hearts you've broken," Ranulf said. "It's my calling in life, apparently."

"Everyone needs a hobby," Ike replied.

**.**

Somehow, the job of music critic landed at Soren's feet. He was convinced that no one read the college paper except the journalist set, most of which worked for it, but he thought at the very least, it might be something to put on his resume.

The magazine was called 'College Beats' but most preferred to call it 'College Bites'. They of course thought this utterly witty and brilliant, no matter how many times the joke repeated. 'They' of course, being the usual frat boys set who spent their time being inebriated, trying to sleep with drunk girls, and trying to light farts.

Besides, if he was going to the concerts anyway, he might as well be able to publicly bitch at them, other than on his blog.

**.**

"'Banging pots and pans in the kitchen? Really?" Boyd said. Ranulf plucked the article up from his hands.

"Sounds like this chick has a thing for you, Ike. 'The singer has a husky and sensual voice, though the lyrics hardly match his quality, and the band would be best advised to stick to covers',"Ranulf said.

"'The bassist is passable, a rarity in most bands these days, though his endless chatter detracted from the experience'," Ike read aloud.

"Seriously, who writes like this? I bet it's really a guy with a giant stick up his ass," Ranulf said.

"I thought you said it was a cute chick?" Ike said.

"He lost his cute chickdom with that comment. I totally revoke it, he's no longer hittable," Ranulf said.

**.**

The next day, a chatty girl with a bob and pink hair interviewed them. She wore a short white dress and gogo boots, and proudly showed off the pegasus tattooed on her thigh.

"So like, you guys must be loving all the success you've been recently having," she said. "Right? A talented band like you guys really deserves it, especially with someone with a voice like yours, handsome."

"You're the same person who wrote the article?" Ike said in incredulity, apparently completely missing the come-on.

"Oh that? Crackers, no. Soren's all doom and gloom. I thought he was a goth at first, but actually he's just naturally doomy and gothy. He looks just like a vampire, you know."

She snapped her pink bubblegum and grinned up at him.

"Huh," Ike said eloquently. He bent down to test the mike.

"K, gimme five minutes," Ranulf said. He pulled Ike away to a corner.

"Hello, Ike at five o clock _cute girl hitting on you_. In case you might not have noticed."

Ike looked back. The girl was now amiably chatting with Boyd. Mist was glaring from the back, her tambourine making little rattles from the sheer force of her full-body arms-crossed jealous huff.

"She doesn't seem too heartbroken," he said dryly.

"Obviously she is doing a subtle ploy to make you jealous," Ranulf said. "It's really quite brilliant."

"Well, she failed," Ike said.

Ranulf sighed. "I finally get some interest out of you for some girl, and you don't get anything more than 'she had on a beret."

"It was dark green," Ike offered.

Ranulf just shook his head. "That's no help at all."

"Oh, and her eyes were red," Ike said.

"...you're after an albino and you mention the _beret? _Maybe you are a lot gayer than I thought," Ranulf said.

"Albino people have white hair," Ike corrected.

"Same difference," Ranulf said.

**.**

Marcia went on for what seemed like _hours_ about how dreamy the lead singer for _Steal This Band _was. Soren fought back his urge to storm out and quit, because he was getting free passes, and Soren had a miser nature to an extent that no one would believe he came from a rich family.

As it was he just drank his black coffee in the most contemptuous manner possible and ignored his co-journalists, who happily ignored him back and continued their chatter about _Ike's abs_ and _Ike's thighs_ and _Ike this_ and _Ike that._

If they had it their way, his whole article would be glowing praise of what Ike must look like shirtless.

But then, not even Soren could find something bad to say about Ike's abs.

**.**

They were on the couch. No games this week, which meant that Ike could actually be bothered to come in for practice. The rest of the band (and family) was still out buying supplies.

"Listen up, you've got to write this," Ranulf said.

"This what?" Mist said cheerily. Boyd had a handprint shaped bruise on his face. Apparently the girl from College Beats had come back.

"Ike's love at first sight with this hipster girl," Ranulf explained.

"Oh! That's so romantic!" Mist said. She clasped her hands dreamily and rocked from side to side, humming something from a musical.

"You should give her mixtapes too. They're like the highest form of affection between hipster girls. They value mixtapes above jewelry. In fact, you could propose with a Bowie meets Beatles mix, true fact," Ranulf said.

"I don't know what bands she likes," Ike said.

"Ike, she was _at our concert._ It shouldn't be too hard to figure out," Ranulf said. "_Or_ returning to the music thing, we'll write a song, cut a demo. Get a hit and woo the girl all in one. Question marks, _profits!_"

Ike shrugged. His drew his fingers over the guitar.

"Dude, I can't believe you just did a meme in real life," Boyd said.

"That's just how I roll, my friend," Ranulf said. He slid across the wood floor into the kitchen.

Mist began to sing a bar from The Sound Of Music, which Boyd had to suffer through at least monthly.

Amidst this, Ike picked out the first chords of _The Girl In The Beret._

**.**

They were playing a bigger crowd this time. Some festival or something. They were playing just before _Defenestration _and _Vaseline Clubb_ which was Ranulf's friend's band (he affectionately referred to it as "Kyza's Big Gay Band.") _Militant Disco_ was there (not to be mistaken with _Panic! At The Disco_ which around here would be lambasted with withering scorn at any mention) as was _Cute Gingham, _a folksy duo who played in pastoral clothes and had a distinctly lesbian vibe.

The blonde from before was there holding a _I love you Nepheneee_ sign. Today she wore a camisole with a rainbow _I Kiss Girls _logo, and a heart.

_Canadian Christopher Columbus_ and _Gates of Guest_ were scheduled, as well as _Penis Ukelele_ and _Ground Zero Penis_(no relation.) All in all, it was looking to be a great crowd.

They bided their time and listened to the shows from behind the stage. There was some good stuff, like _Penis Ukelele's_ catchy beats, and _Cute Gingham's _folksy twang. But before long, it was their turn. They loaded up on stage, and Ike stared into the crowd. He never got stage fright like some did, it'd just never happened to him. Not even in front of this crowd did he feel bad. Boyd had the jitters so badly, Mist had been forced to kick him to get him to go out. Ranulf never feared a crowd, obviously.

Ike took a deep breath and did their introduction.

"Hi everyone, we're _Steal This Band._" Applause. Cheers. Whistles. He recognized some faces in the crowd from previous gigs.

"We're gonna do an old favorite... _Egg Roll, Ham Radio,_" Ike said. It was then that the girl came into focus. It was a navy beret that was over her dark hair this time. Her gaze was intense as she looked up. She looked cynical, utterly unimpressed, and all it made him want to do is prove her wrong.

"It's her," Ike said.

The crowd looked around, from one to another, and onto the stage for the 'her.'

Ranulf leaned in and stole the mike, as he was wont to do.

"Scratch that, we've got a new debut called _The Girl In The Beret_–based on a true story, guys!"

Parts of the group passed Ike his acoustic guitar. He started on the opening chords, never taking his eyes off the girl.

**.**

Ranulf clapped him on the shoulder when they finished and packed up their things. "That was amazing, Ike. Seriously. I didn't know you had it in you."

Someone came in a lot of black wearing a large press necklace. A second glance made him realize that this was _her_–the girl in the beret.

"I'm Soren Nevassa from College Beats," Soren said. "You scheduled an interview. I'm filling in for Marcia."

"_Waaaait_," Ranulf said incredulously. "You're the one who ripped us a new one?"

"The review for _Steal This Band _was one of the least harsh I've given, and hardly as you put it 'ripping you a new one'," Soren said icily.

"I figured you'd be older. And like, not with the muscle structure of a twelve-year-old girl," Ranulf said. He poked at Soren's ribs. Soren glared.

"Are you finished?" Soren said coldly.

"Nope. I could go all day. I didn't expect you to have Rapunzel hair, or wear girlpants. Seriously, I've seen _Ike's sister_wearing that brand, and I didn't expect you to look like a vampire, and I didn't expect you to be a guy–"

"That's enough, Ranulf," Ike said.

"But I had at least three more from the list. Do you think he'd go all Hadoken on me? Maybe he's got this secret well of lost arts of martial arts..."

Soren rolled his eyes. "If you'll excuse me, I didn't come for _puerile exploits of college boys. _I experience enough of those on campus."

"Jeez man, you really were gayer than I thought," Ranulf said. He patted Ike on the shoulder before he left.

"I guess I was," Ike said.

Soren made no comment to this exchange. Instead he clung tight to his notebook and bag of implements, looking either like a crack junkie or someone with a severe social phobia–or perhaps, a crack junkie with a social phobia.

"Uh...let's go get something to eat. I can't think when I'm hungry."

"All right," Soren said.

"There's this place down the street or so, called Barbie's Barbeque. Ever been there?" Ike asked.

"No," Soren replied.

Ike was already putting on his vintage bomber jacket.

"You should try it, they're great," Ike said.

"If you say so," Sore replied. "I'll have to inform you that this won't affect my review of the show, in any way, shape or form."

"I'm not trying to. Who have you got to interview next?" Ike asked.

"_Jungle Dishwasher_" Soren replied.

"They're good. Ever heard _Red Right Return Jamboree_?"

"The singer is sub-par, the lyrics are _creative _and I don't say that as a compliment," Soren said.

"It never is with you, huh?" Ike said.

"What?"

"A compliment."

"I don't sugarcoat things," Soren said.

"Obviously. We're playing with _The Stripper's Leggings _next round," Ike said causally.

"Oh, _them._" Soren said derisively. "They remind me of _Kris Pine _but with less talent. The only thing they seem to do effectively is scream like a tortured cat and display creative usage of eyeliner."

Ike didn't have to guess that Kris Pine of _Vizor Penance_–who surely according to him, had never been good, not even before he went big with his hit _Absolved _that played on some super hero movie.

"I was just listening to the newest _Jesus Stole My Sailboat _album the other day. Ranulf swears they're amazing."

"The title is entirely illogical. Why would a man who can walk on water need a sailboat?"

"He got tired of walking and wanted to sail instead?" Ike said.

"I assume most of these band names were made over hallucinogenic drugs," Soren said.

"That's how Ranulf got ours," Ike said. "Or so he claims."

"Somehow, I'm not surprised," Soren replied.

There were band guys all over. Moving speakers, instruments, whatever. Ike waved to a few, Soren ignored them all.

They walked the few blocks to Barbie's trading more musical history. Soren didn't have much of anything good to say about the music, but that seemed par for the course.

He set the recorder down on the table between them. It was pretty quiet for a Wednesday. Barbie's was in a Western theme, with barbed wire, and faux leather seats with a cowhide pattern on the front. It was not for the vegan at heart.

Soren didn't even open the menu.

"Aren't you going to order anything?" Ike said.

"Black coffee," Soren responded.

"But seriously, this place is amazing. And you must be starved after a long day. I know I sure am."

Soren finally picked up the menu as if he deeply loathed it and looked through with much disdain. When the waitress came, Ike ordered a steak so large the plate could barely contain it. Soren almost said the word _salad _but the look Ike gave him made him reconsider and try some grilled chicken instead.

There wasn't a lot of talking while their mouths were busy eating, of course. They didn't make conversation. Ike ate fast, as if he was half-starved, while Soren cut his meat into tiny pieces and ate each piece with much prejudice. By the time they finished, Barbie's was filling with the midnight crowd. Soren looked out like he hated each and every one of them personally, simply for existing.

Ike stretched, full of that post-meal euphoria which Ranulf swore he described in post-coital terms.

"The pie here is amazing," Ike said. "Key lime, and the chocolate creme pudding is not to be missed."

"I'll take your word on it," Soren said evenly.

"You haven't lived until you've tried a slice or two. Or three," Ike said.

Soren sighed. "I suppose."

They split an order of several pieces of pie, and by 'split' he meant 'Soren got a bite out of each while Ike polished off the rest in a quiet, sullen manner.

Usually when Ike was eating, his whole mind was focused on whatever food was in front of him. It'd become a family joke, in fact. _Never ask Ike a question when he's eating_. However, Ike had only been half attentive to his food this time. Soren wasn't particularly talkative at the table either, and yet Ike kept finding himself drawn. Sometimes Soren would push those dark tresses from his face, or turn his pale lips in a downwards grimace and Ike would just find himself fascinated without knowing why.

It was weird. Ike had never had the awakening most boys got around their mid-teens. He had never really gone through the 'girls are icky' stage, but he never progressed into 'girls are hot' stage either. They just...were. They were friends and family members, and occasionally annoyances, in the case of Aimee. Ranulf was always pointing out girls and Ike was never really seeing the appeal.

On the other hand, he'd never really had a thing for guys either. He'd never really worried about it, actually. It'd just been one of those things he didn't understand, like Quantum Physics, that he was ok with not getting.

But being here with Soren felt nice. Warm, and good and interesting. Like a favorite meal, with a nice big mug of beer. In fact, he didn't want it to end yet. The interview hadn't even technically started, but there were some noisy patrons around this hour, and he figured it'd be for the best to leave sooner rather than later.

"Want to go out for coffee?" Ike said.

Soren looked down at the cup he'd already had.

"Since we didn't get much interviewing here, I suppose so," he replied.

"I'm sure there's a Starbucks around the corner, there always seems to be."

Soren's left eye began to twitch at the mention of the name _Starbucks_ but he didn't raise a complaint. Ike rose to pay. Soren started to go for his wallet, but Ike gave him a lopsided smile.

"My treat."

**.**

This Starbucks stayed open late, and Soren picked up some of the non-fancy yuppie coffee and some of the overpriced treats, some tart or something. At this rate, he'd be up all night.

Soren set the recorder between them again.

"I should apologize in advance for such an inane question set, but Marcia was slated to make the interview," Soren said, not lifting his eyes from his college rule notebook.

"Mmmhmmm," Ike said and took a sip of his coffee.

"What drew you into the world of music?" Soren read off.

"A friend of Ranulf's started a band, and he thought it would be a good idea to 'get chicks' I think was his exact wording."

"So you started your band to...'get chicks'?" Soren asked.

"No, Ranulf did. I sort of just...came along," Ike said. He took a bite of his tart, and failed to wipe the purple smear from his cheek. Soren stared at it several long moments, OCDness raging inside him. Finally, in the war of cleanliness versus touch aversion, hygiene won over and Soren took a napkin and wiped Ike's face.

Ike blinked, and touched his cheek.

"You had something on your face," Soren murmured, despite it being patently obvious.

"Oh, thanks. This is good, you should try some," Ike said.

Soren looked down at the tart as if he found it personally offensive.

"Do you see yourself doing this professionally?" Soren said.

"Not really, it's just a weekend thing when there's no football," Ike said.

"Alright then... Is there any 'lucky lady' in your life. Tee hee," Soren read off blandly.

"It honestly says 'tee hee' on there, or did you laugh for real?" Ike asked.

"It honestly says 'tee hee'," Soren replied. He looked like he wanted to take a lighter to the paper.

"Uhh, well. The song _The Girl In The Beret _was written about someone, so I guess you could say that there's someone in my life, even if I don't really know them yet. I want to, though...the opportunity just hasn't presented itself until really recently."

"Hmm. It was a well-written song," Soren replied quietly.

"Coming from you, that must be some compliment," Ike said, with a smile.

"Moving on," Soren said quickly. "Who would you say are your musical influences?"

"I don't know, I guess the stuff I listen to might have shaped how we play. I never set out to emulate anyone, really. It was really just this thing we did when we weren't tossing around footballs, playing street basketball or hockey when it got cold."

"You've been compared to The Kydds, the Radioactive Such And Suches and Fahrenheit.69. Would you say they're your influences?" Soren asked.

"Maybe, the same as above, really," Ike said.

"What do you see in your future? More concerts? Perhaps the chance of cutting a record deal?"

"More pastries," Ike said.

"...More pastries?" Soren asked.

"Yup. Want one?"

"No," Soren said.

"You sure?" Ike said.

"...you're going to just keep on until I eat more, aren't you?" Soren said.

"You're catching on fast," Ike said.

Soren sighed. "Fine. Give me the receipt afterwards. I'll refund you the difference."

"Nope," Ike said. "My treat."

Soren narrowed his eyes, but Ike didn't see or didn't care, and left anyways. He returned in a moment with some Chai tea and some other pastry.

Soren turned off the recorder. "I'll send you a copy once it's printed, if you wish."

"Hey, wait a minute, I have a few questions," Ike said.

"Yes? I'll try to answer whatever questions you have, but I don't do printing," Soren said.

"Not printing. Not about magazine," Ike said.

"...yes?"

"What's your major? Minor? Something journalism, I guess?"

"Hardly," Soren scoffed. "I'm taking many classes on history, literature and I'm minoring in Genetics."

"Huh," Ike said. "It sounds like you're taking them for fun at this rate."

"I do enjoy the courses," Soren said. "Is that a crime now?"

"No, not at all," Ike said. "I went the community college route for a while...I ran out of money after the first year and had to take a job in a store."

"I see," Soren replied.

Ike took a sip of coffee. "Yeah, it's a hardware store. Nice place."

"Quite, well–"

"Why don't you stay a while?" Ike said, interrupting his hasty departure.

Soren blinked at him. Ike had reached out, and now gently gripped his wrist. Soren didn't immediately draw away, as he usually would have. Ike's hand was warm, and a bit rough against him. Soren gave him a wary glance, but began to sit down again.

"What was it you needed?"

"Just wanted to talk," Ike said. He had a foam moustache, and Soren found it... no, endearing isn't a word he'd apply, ever. Amusing, perhaps?

"About...?"

"Anything," Ike said.

Soren tried to read Ike, to see what he was trying to accomplish by these gestures. However he only saw kindness there, and that same intense look he always seemed to have. It fitted him, a gaze like fire...

Soren backtracked immediately from that train of thought. It sounded like one of those horrendous romances his mother would read with the woman in a loose dress with lots of cleavage embraced by a buff shirtless men. The type called IThe Dark Falcon Of Passion/I or some other ridiculous title.

But Soren stayed, regardless of the fact that it was impeding on his precious study time.

**.**

Soren started out withdrawn and terse, but the more they talked, the more he began to relax and come out of his shell. Actually relaxing seemed beyond him, however. He'd look to the door like hunted prey, and was always aware of his surroundings.

They talked until the Starbucks closed, and then they talked a little more on the stoop, finishing their last coffees–decaf, this time. They mentioned family (both had lost their father, though Soren at a young age and Ike just recently.) And took a detour to making fun of popular culture. He was surprised and pleased to find that Soren and he had a lot of the same opinions on things. The Establishment (as Ranulf put it) especially. Soren was cynical and wry, tossing his head in irritation when things were mentioned he particularly decried, which made his hair even more alluring, more catching to the eye.

Ike had this thought, a fantasy maybe, of reaching out and undoing Soren's complex pigtails-to-ponytail, letting it fall free and running his fingers through the thick, sleek black hair with its green undertones.

More than once he'd just blanked out and had to ask Soren to repeat, because Soren tucked a loose hair behind his ear or shifted in a way that was just _distracting._He'd rolled his eyes along with Mist the time Boyd had been so distracted by that woman with the low neckline when they were out for a football game, but now he was feeling some sympathy for Boyd's plight and bruises for that matter. His sister had left Boyd with a shiner that lasted two weeks, which technically hadn't been her fault. She'd pushed Boyd so hard when they were bickering that he'd falling straight into one of those giant mascots, which got him punched by the angry guy in a baseball bat outfit. She'd felt bad afterwards, though Boyd learned to be more discreet in his 'appreciating the ladies' as Ranulf put it.

They were shoulder to shoulder on the steps, with Soren looking up for stars he couldn't see through the lights. Ike looked at Soren in profile and thought that he'd never really felt like kissing anyone before, or felt the draw of putting his lips on another's. He'd been caught by girls under the mistletoe, or that one party Ranulf had managed to drag him to where a drunk girl had all but thrown herself at him, but they'd been sloppy and he'd felt nothing except mild disgust.

He didn't say _I want to kiss you _though it took every ounce of self-control he had (and which Mist and Titania claimed he didn't have.)

"So, that Brittany Piers, awful music, huh?" Ike said instead.

Soren snorted. "As if I have to elaborate. She obviously got her job by fellatio. Or perhaps a pact with the underworld."

Ike grinned at that. Soren had seemed entirely dour at first meeting, but he actually had a sense of humor under it all. A very, very, very dry one, but it was still there, if you dug deep enough.

"So, would you like to come listen to us practice sometime? Strictly off-business," Ike said.

Soren gave him a cynical sideways glance.

"I suppose, but it will not affect—"

"I know, I know, won't affect the reviews. That's why I said strictly off-business."

"I suppose next you'll want to walk me home," Soren said sardonically.

"Unless you really do have some secret well of martial arts moves, yeah," Ike said. "I don't have your number, so I can't exactly call to make sure you're ok, now can I?"

"I see...you're one of those 'hero' types," Soren murmured.

"Weird, Ranulf said the same thing. Do you share a D and D club or something?" Ike said.

"Archetypes of Arthurian legends and beyond: the beginnings of the hero by Lehran Scribner," Soren said, as if he were mentally reciting a library list.

"What?"

"It's what I'm studying this semester," Soren said. "According to him, the main characteristics of a hero is a selfless nature, a rash nature of taking on larger foes for the sake of a country, populace or lover–or perhaps God, depending on the focus of the story."

"Oh," Ike said.

"A protectiveness usually focused on women..." Soren said thoughtfully. "You do realize I'm a male, right?"

"Yeah, despite the girlpants, I got that," Ike said. "But if you got attacked in an alley, you'd be pretty much toast. Unless you really do have secret powers which aren't related to brainy, snarky things."

"I don't," Soren said. "However Crimea's crime rate it negligible at best in this part of town. I checked the statistics personally, and mapped out the best possible residence with respect to position nearest my campus, location of needed suppliers and stores, as well as pricing and other considerations."

"Still, there's no reason to tempt fate and be the one percent or something, right?" Ike said.

"Think more far less than zero. Think .0 001 percent, and you'd be closer," Soren said. "More crimes happen in senior citizen complexes."

"Senior citizens complexes can be dangerous places. Once, Ranulf took me to visit a relative of his. I nearly got crushed between the weekly wrestling match with his nephew," Ike said.

Soren sighed. He'd been doing a lot of that lately. The look he gave Ike wasn't complete irritation, there even seemed a hint of grudging acceptance to him.

"All right. If it'll make you feel better, then do so."

"It will," Ike assured him.

They walked on, barely talking. If they talked anymore Ike's voice would start sounding like _Bright Eyes._It wasn't uncomfortable silence, though. Soren wasn't in his I Hate Everyone mood, and had simmered down to a calmer state of mild sullenness. Still he had one burning question he couldn't get through the night without asking.

"So, Sartre," Ike said.

"What about him?"

"Is it good? Whatever the book you had the first time I saw you. You seemed pretty intent on it."

"It was Being and Nothingness. I took a detour and decided to take on his works even if my oh so _qualified _teacher believes we can do without existentialism, which is unacceptable, as most of his cuts are."

"So wait, it wasn't for college, and you were reading that book for fun? It was like eight-hundred pages long," Ike said with incredulity.

"Eight-hundred and eleven to be exact. And?" Soren said, as if he read eight-hundred books on complex philosophy every weekend.

"Just...whoa. Intense," Ike said, his mind still trying to comprehend this. The last book he'd read had been something or other in school, and certainly not a giant essay by an existential philosopher done for entertainment.

"He did include Sisyphus and the Prophet for our classes, amazingly," Soren said with scorn. "It never fails to surprise me when my teachers manage to be competent."

Somehow, Ike found Soren's scorn amusing. He sort of wanted to ask Soren about something that would make him rant, just to listen to the way he would mercilessly argue things. He bet that Soren was on the debate team during his teen years, and that he viciously won every argument, and probably left some members in tears afterwards.

But that'd have to be for another day, because he was already at his apartment complex.

"So, wanna watch us practice sometime? You could give us crit or something," Ike said.

"If you believe you can handle it, then perhaps, depending on my schedule. However, I will be brutal."

"I don't know about the others, but I can handle it," Ike said. "Besides, I knew you'd be brutal, but I wouldn't ask you if you'd just be all 'oh you guys are great' when you thought we were shit. If we suck, then I trust you to tell us in the most blunt way possible."

Was that the hint of a smile? In the light of the flickering street lamp, he couldn't tell.

**.**

"So how was finding out your first love was a dude go?" Ranulf asked. He was leaning just in on the door as Ike came in and hung up his bomber jacket.

"Actually, it didn't really affect anything," Ike said. "And it went fine."

Mist and Boyd couldn't have looked more riveted to his story if they'd had popcorn.

"What happened? What happened?" Mist asked.

"We talked, interview and stuff," Ike said. "Ate. Stuff like that. It wasn't really a date, just an interview with food involved."

"Oh cut it out. It was a _man date,_" Ranulf said.

"Well, we did go out for coffee afterwards because I was too busy eating to really do much interviewing," Ike said. "Concerts always tire me out and make me hungry."

"Total man date," Ranulf said. "Though this would explain why you never go out and pick up chicks we me. Heyy, maybe we can go out with Kyza and pick up dudes together!"

"Not a chance, Ranulf," Ike said.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: The Girl In The Beret (or: Gay Hipster Love) (2/4)  
Series: FE10 (au)  
Character/Pairing: Ike/Soren main, background Boyd/Mist, Ranulf/everyone and Tibarn/Reyson.  
Summary: Soren doesn't like labels, Ike's never liked anyone, at least not like that until he sees the pretty 'girl' at the gig they're playing. Slowly they start a tentative friendship and figure out this thing between them along the way. Hipster AU. Ike/Soren, Boyd/Mist.  
Word count: 5050  
Author's note: I had to split it into more chapters than I intended due to LJ restrictions on word count.

I've actually completed this story (and Frost Fair, for that matter) and am just working through editing them with my beta. Last part comes with a giiiiant mix which I'll be posting on my journal and will mention or link to or something.

Thanks to Joss for betaing through this.

**.**

It wasn't like the time they brought two of Ranulf's uh _admirers_ along. They were starry-eyed and cheered at the end. Soren sat quietly and was barely moved no matter how well they jammed. He sat ramrod straight without slouching even a little, and his gaze was as Soren put it, "totally intense." Boyd kept missing beats just because he was so unnerved. To Ike, it was an incentive. If he could get Soren's approval, then he'd be really good. He knew that Soren would never bullshit or flatter him, and if they ever really did get famous like Ranulf dreamed, then he wouldn't treat him any different.

He watched Soren get some punch, which was courtesy of Ranulf and probably spiked like crazy. He'd probably be carrying Soren home by the time they were done. Somehow he did not mind this prospect. He had a mental image of tucking a cute, drunk Soren into bed, and minded it even less.

Ranulf sidled up beside him, guessing quite quickly that he wasn't staring at the punch bowl with such interest.

"You go for weird types, Ike. It's like they have to be as bitchy as all can be for you to even notice. Or maybe not–I introduced you to Lethe and... nothing."

"When it's right, it's right," Ike said.

"You should write a song about that," Ranulf said.

Ike's gaze fixated on Soren, who turned for a moment, already tipsy from Ranulf's patented More Alcohol Than Punch. Their eyes met. Ike felt a little bit of awe that anyone could be that much of a lightweight.

"Maybe I should," he said.

Ike didn't even bother taking off his guitar, instead passing Ranulf's groupies–affectionately referred to as 'his harem' by about everybody, especially Ranulf himself.

"You brought your guitar," Soren said. He already looked like he might fall over at any minute.

"Yeah, Ranulf spikes the punch," Ike said. "So you don't want seconds."

"Mm," Soren said.

"Whoa there." Ike reached to keep him from falling.

"I'm not tipsy," Soren said, more than a little annoyed.

"If you say so," Ike said.

Soren's eyes focused on the strings of the guitar. "Your playing is slightly better than most of the pathetic string plucking and wailing that makes up most of the genre."

"Uh, thanks, I guess," Ike said. "You'd probably blow me out of the water with your guitar skills, or something."

Soren shook his head.

"You mean you've never played?"

"I have had no interest to try."

"Come here, live a little. I'll show you," Ike said.

Soren shook his head, but Ike was just as determined as he would have been if food had been involved. Soren finally gave up and allowed the guitar to be put over his slim shoulders. Ike was behind him, placing his fingers on the right strings and murmuring words of gentle encouragement.

Soren caught on fast. He was picking out Canon In D in a halting, slightly drunk matter.

"You've had training," Ike noted.

"Not guitar," Soren said.

"Show me sometime. Maybe you'll be our next new member," Ike said.

Soren didn't reply. He just frowned and tried to take the strap off. Ike helped him again.

"You should really get some water. Ranulf spikes stuff hardcore."

He took Soren by the arm and led him to the kitchen. He turned on the tap and ran his fingers under the faucet to make sure it wasn't tepid. Then he filled the glass and handed it to Soren. Soren frowned at the glass, as if he had given Soren acid–the corrosive kind, not the fun, mind trip kind.

"Tap water. Really?" Soren said.

"What's wrong with tap water now?" Ike said.

"It's filled with noxious chemicals, and tastes like shit," Soren said. "Which is probably apt, considering that it's filtered from sewer water."

"So, tap water is the new cigarettes?" Ike said. "If we ever become a duo, that should be our band name."

"If we ever become a duo, it'll be called 'This Is Our Happy Face'," Soren said. He didn't crack a smile. It took a few beats for Ike to realize that _Soren had actually shown a sense of humor_.

Ike almost felt like he should call in Ranulf for this momentous occasion.

Soren pulled a metal canteen thing out of his ever-present mission bag and took a sip. Ike didn't think it was filled with anything but water, as opposed to Ranulf's flasks which could contain a variety of fruity alcoholic drinks hidden away.

"I'm heading out. I have a paper to finish," Soren said.

"Yeah, see you," Ike said. Soren gave little more than a nod and then the door was closing. Ike was still trying to grasp that Soren had a sense of humor hidden under all that hipster snark.

"Is it just me, or is he the Yahtzee of indie college music?" Ranulf said.

Ike grinned. "He has a sense of humor under it all."

Ranulf shook his head. "Dude, you are so gone, it isn't even funny."

"What?" Ike said.

"Trust me. I call dibs on being best man," Ranulf said.

**.**

When Soren returned, the first thing out of Marcia's mouth was _You filthy cracker snatcher_!

Soren looked at her, perplexed at why she was angry this time, as she considered him with her hands on her hips.

"You went to a private concert with them and _didn't tell me?_" Marcia said. "If I didn't think that Facebook was an authoritarian bourgeoisie pain in the ass and only skimmed it for bands, you would be _so_ defriended now."

'It wasn't a private concert; It was a practice session. And go next time if you want to. I don't care," Soren said.

"But they invited you, not me," she said.

Soren shrugged. "I was the one who interviewed him."

"Crackers. I rue the fact that my lily-livered brother made me miss that. It sounds like he took you on a date. You totally went on a date together," she said.

"For the last time, it was _not_ a date," Soren said in irritation.

"Did he pay?"

Soren didn't reply.

"He paid, didn't he?" She pressed on.

"This is a waste of time–"

"He so paid. And that isn't all, is it? She persisted.

Soren let out an irritated sigh. He knew she'd just keep bothering him until she got the information she wanted. Marcia was persistent like that.

"He paid and walked me home. There, are you happy now?"

"No!" Marcia said. "That was supposed to be my gig, oh, I am going to _strangle_ that brother of mine—"

"You do that," Soren said.

**.**

Ike mashed buttons, sending a flurry of kicks against Ranulf's character in the game. Ike's was a hulking, mostly strength character, while Ranulf's relied more on speed.

"So," Ranulf said. "You were cozy with Soren last night. Love at first sight, huh?"

"It's not really like that," Ike said. He blocked Ranulf's air jump and roundhouse kicked his character. "It's just...he's interesting. I like seeing him and talking to him. There's no sweaty palms or stuff."

"You are one cool cat, man," Ranulf said. He did a sliding kick and knocked Ike's character off his feet. "But seriously. If you try and grow a beard or muttonchops to win him over, I swear I will kidnap you and drag you to Sephora. I will even get Kyza to help me."

"Duly noted," Ike said.

"Big words. Is Soren rubbing off on you? I bet you wish he was," Ranulf said with a sly grin.

"I wish. Maybe then I wouldn't have almost flunked math," Ike said.

Ranulf shook his head. "Ike, my man, you're my bro and all, but you couldn't get a dirty joke if it cockslapped you."

"That's why I keep you around, obviously, to get the dirty jokes for me," Ike said. He performed a combo and put Ranulf's character in a lock which erased the last of his health.

"Oh, you know it," Ranulf said. "Rematch, you big lug of a cheater!"

"I'll be glad to beat you twice," Ike said.

**.**

Ike had been charged with being the Latte Bitch today. Straws had been drawn, and his had been straight and 'shockingly heterosexual, considering' according to Ranulf. Which might have been because Ranulf drew a twisty straw with a bow on it, because that was how he rolled.

Ike was just getting his Lattes, Grandes, and whatever else when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. Soren was at a corner, blowing on his coffee.

"Sir?" The shop girl prompted.

He handed her a coin without looking back.

"...It was 10.99. That's a one dollar gold piece."

"Oh, sorry. Thought it was a twenty piece." He reached into his pockets and procured the correct amount."

Ike dropped by Soren's table where he had his laptop open but was reading a book instead of the screen in front of him.

"Multitasking as usual?" Ike asked.

Soren looked up from his book.

"The connection at my dorm is a useless piece of shit," Soren said. "I'm downloading the podcast of my professor's last lecture."

Ike sidled down, the coffee job set aside and forgotten.

There was a large stack of books beside his laptop that Ike hadn't noticed. He tilted his head to read the covers. More _Sartre_, and _The Once And Future King_ were in the stack.

"So, books, huh," Ike said.

"Yes," Soren said. "Books. You wouldn't know them."

Ike turned one to the side. Tennyson. Nope, he wouldn't.

"If it was music, I might, though," Ike said. "You'd say 'you wouldn't know of them' and I'd say 'I opened for them last month'."

Soren lifted one brow, seeming to take this as a challenge. He lifted up his MP3 player and read aloud.

"The Smiths, Queen, The Cure..."

"Okay, you win," Ike said. "I didn't play with them, and won't–unless someone invents time travel."

"I'll get right on it," Soren said dryly.

"If anyone could do it, it's you," Ike said. He smiled, lopsided, and poked one of Soren's books.

"At this point, I bet there's barely any room in your apartment," Ike said.

"_Ha h_a," Soren said flatly. "There's some room, though I have been in need of bookcases."

"I could make you some. I'm good with my hands," Ike said. Soren looked at him appraisingly, and it took him a moment to realize that it sort of sounded like the latter was a come on or dirty joke. Of course, it was him, so it wasn't.

"I'll think about it," Soren said.

"You've got my number, right?" Ike said. "Just checking."

"I've the number to your annoying publicist and bassist," Soren said.

"Here, let me get it for you. Got a pen?"

"As if you have to ask," Soren murmured. He pulled out a thick one with gold edging, and handed it over. There was a line of skulls and crossbones embossed on the side.

"Nice," Ike said, looking the pen over.

"It was a gift," Soren said, careless.

"Do you have any paper?"

"No, but it wouldn't matter. I have a laptop here, in case you didn't notice."

"I noticed. Call me old fashioned," Ike said. "Here, give me your arm."

"What?" Soren said. He looked taken aback.

"Your arm. Just trust me, ok?"

For a few moments, Soren didn't reply. He just looked at Ike warily, and seemed to be sizing him up. Finally, Soren slowly put his arm across the table. Ike pushed up his sleeve. He was surprised by how cool Soren's skin was. His thumb skimmed the ridge of Soren's wrist, as he measured a distance and wrote his number scrawled over Soren's skin.

"I'm guessing you remember my name by now," Ike said.

"I should hope so," Soren replied. There was a tremor in his voice at the very last syllable. Soren cleared his throat to hide it, but Ike caught it, nonetheless.

"Don't rub it, now, or it'll smudge," Ike said.

Soren didn't roll up his sleeve. He left it like that, and stared down at the numbers on it, as if he were thinking of doing strings of numbers. Things like fibonacci and pi, the Riezman hypothesis, which to Ike might as well have been mythical. Numbers like that could have feathers, for all Ike knew about them.

Ike's phone beeped, and he looked at the screen.

"Gotta go. Think about it, ok? In fact, you pay for the wood and I'll do it for free," Ike said.

"And what would you get out of it, other than splinters and my oh-so-pleasant company?" Soren asked. He narrowed his eyes, and it gave him almost a feline look.

_Because that's what friends do_ was the first thought that came to mind, but one didn't proclaim friendship on the third meeting with Soren. Even as dense as he was, he got that.

"I'm a nice guy," Ike offered instead.

"I've already purchased some," Soren said. "I just need someone to move them."

"Tell me when. If there was a class in college for moving stuff for beer and pizza, I would've aced it," Ike said.

"I'm sure you would have," Soren said.

.

Soren spent a week being overly aware of his phone. He read and studied and the phone was their, practically begging him to pick it up. It was haunting him. Ike had given his personal cell phone number as a sign of good-will or whatever else he had planned–Soren still wasn't convinced that this whole thing wasn't just to get _Steal This Band_ more promotion.

However, Soren had bookcases and a couch which needed to be moved. Marcia's brother was the only other option.

He held out for another three hours before he gave up and left a message on Ike's cell. He was all caught up for the week with homework and his page for College Beats was already sent in. He really didn't have an excuse, though, Soren figured he probably could have thought one up if he tried.

**.**

"So this bookcase," Ike said, when he strolled in. "It's going to take up your entire apartment, right?"

"Yes, Ike," Soren said drly without looking up from the book he was reading." Make sure there's a large enough opening for me to climb under."

He was only at the doorway of Soren's very bare, clean apartment, tape measure drawn when a knock sounded at the door. Ike opened it up to face a very tall, imposing woman staring down at him with disdain.

She strode in, statuesque in a way which inspired awe and almost something akin to terror. Her hair, somewhere between dark green and black, like Soren's, was swept up in a bun. Ike had never seen her before, though she bore a striking resemblance to Soren, and not just in the hair color. Her skin was darker, a dusky hue, but her eyes were the same piercing red, and filled with disdain.

Behind her, almost eclipsed by her presence was a boy with curly blue hair who seemed perennially slouching. He smiled nervously at Ike, like a kicked puppy seeking approval and forgiveness.

"This place is so bare," she said, scrunching her nose up in disgust.

"I prefer it that way," Soren said.

"This isn't how a _princ_e should act, my dear," she said. "These clothes...they look like they've been worn by other people."

"They have," Soren said. "If you need any smelling salts, I could try and locate some."

"Prince?" Ike said. "Is that a nickname, or..."

She looked at him for the first time and narrowed her eyes. Apparently before she had thought him part of the furniture, or an errand boy.

"It seems you have not introduced me to your..._friend_," she said, pronouncing 'friend' as if the word she really wanted to say was 'slime mold'.

"This is Ike. He's the lead singer of_ Steal This Band_," Soren said wearily.

"Really?" piped up the boy with curly hair. "Micaiah's little brother adores you. There's posters plastered all over his room. Most of them are ah, less clothed than this, though," he said, with a faint blush to his cheeks.

Soren looked to Ike with a questioning expression. Ike was sort of reminded of the sorts of looks wives gave their husbands when they were Most Definitely In Trouble. He'd seen that exact exchange between Tibarn and Reyson quite often before Tibarn got banished to the couch again.

"Posters?"

"Ranulf joked he would. I didn't think he'd ever really go through with it," Ike said. "I guess I'll have to talk to him about that..."

"I guess you will," Soren replied.

"Dearest, didn't we have a talk about how we don't talk about _that girl_ in my presence?" She said in a too-sweet tone.

"Sorry, mother," the boy mumbled.

"Really, Soren dearest, you have no manners. You have not introduced us properly to...him."

"Ike, this is the woman who spawned me, and beside her is my brother."

She sighed dramatically, and her chest heaved as she did. For a moment Ike had a horrifying thought of being suffocated by those giant breasts that looked as if they were made of steel. This might be one of Ranulf's secret fantasies, but to Ike it sounded more like a nightmare.

"Soren dear, you'll have to tell your _friend_ goodbye, we've got an appointment to revamp your hideous wardrobe."

"I'll walk him out," Soren said quickly, and all but grabbed Ike's arm. It seemed more like a desperate escape to Ike, but he didn't comment on it.

"Prince, really?" Ike said when they were out of range.

"The Daein royalty is essentially name only. After the last king–who is unfortunately my sire–was killed, the Begnionian Congress gutted the royal family's power and dismantled their armies."

"Your father was Ashnard the Bloody?" Ike asked incredulously.

"The one and only," Soren said wearily. "And for the record, I never make use of my title. I still think the nobility is a hypocritical and outdated institution. She's the only one who insists on clinging to such things, but then she comes from Goldoan royalty as well, so it seems ingrained on her."

"It's not your fault what family you're born to. It's not like you could change it," Ike said.

"I'm glad you understand, Ike," Soren said in a much softer, kinder voice than usual. His face flushed a rosy pink as he shook he head and backtracked from that moment.

"I mean, it's good to see you don't consider me a complete hypocrite." He cleared his throat. "Yes. I'll be going. She's waiting for me."

Pelleas had opened the door and followed. Most likely, he had been ordered to fetch Soren. He cleared his throat and looked up, awkward and a little nervous.

"Yes, Pelleas?" Soren said.

"Why doesn't he come with us? I mean, Micaiah's brother would be very, very happy to meet you. He's very...fond of Ike. He–he has a band. It's called 'The Stripper's Leggings'."

"Oh, I know them. They do shows in eyeliner and stuff."

Soren's mother appeared, as if she had been listening with her ear to the door. In fact, there was a good chance she had. She pursed her lips. "Really, dear, we're very busy..."

"Please," Pelleas said. His look was filled with desperation, the kind often seen on children about to be kidnapped away to family gatherings. _"Please."_

"Uh," Ike looked from family member to family member. Soren was sullen, arms crossed like a teenage girl who was just told she couldn't wear that miniskirt and was to be grounded for a month.

Ike technically had the weekend off. He hadn't thought he'd spend it meeting Soren's crazy family, but he supposed it was better than being dragged to the nightclub scene again by Ranulf.

"If you want?" Ike finally compromised.

Pelleas looked relieved, and Soren didn't look as angry as he figured Soren would be. He didn't look as indifferent as he thought he'd be either, so that was something.

Even if his mother resembled the evil stepmother from many a Disney movie.

**.**

It was a three hour trip from Crimea to Daein, and another three hours to Nevassa. Sitting in a car driven by a butler who looked like he was packing Uzis under his starched jacket was not Ike's idea of an ideal weekend, but he'd been on worse road trips. Once, Kyza and Lyre had fought almost nonstop for the entire nine hours it took to get to the Gallian capital. Far be from him to prevent it, Ranulf had seemed to revel in the fact that most of their fighting had been about—and over–him.

Soren had his earbuds in. When his mother complained that he was being insensitive, Soren explained it away as part of a project for the zine he was working in. Ike figured it was a lie, but he didn't hold it against him.

**.**

The piano may have been grand at some point in its life, but now it was just dusty. In fact, the whole house was covered in a thick layer of dust. Soren explained his mother was rather paranoid about staff, and too aristocratic to do it herself. Still, Soren was arguing in the other room with his mother and he'd all but ordered Ike to stay here in the sitting room. The room was lined with old pictures, and Ike had looked over them at first. He recognized some as Soren and what he assumed to be his brother as a very young child. There was a man which Ike recognized as Ashnard The Bloody. Everyone in the pictures looked awkward, homicidal or unhappy. All they showed was evidence of a markedly unhappy childhood. Eventually, Ike came back to the piano, and sat down on the dusty chair. He pushed back the cover–he didn't know the exact title of it, he'd have to ask Soren later–and pressed down a key. He was surprised to find it was still in tune. He'd never learned to play piano, though his mother had wanted him to. It had been on of those things, like camping trips or talks that were pushed on to _tomorrow_ without ever realizing there wouldn't be a tomorrow with his parents because they'd both die far before he could even imagine possible in his childish thoughts.

He began to try and pick out _The Girl In The Beret_ on the keys. He was almost getting the hang of it when the heated talking in the other room stilled, and he heard footsteps coming along. He turned as the door opened.

"I didn't know you could play," Soren said.

"I can't, really," Ike said. "I'm just punching keys at this point."

Soren took tentative steps towards him, and Ike moved over on the bench to make room. He stood for a moment, seeming to consider the options before him. To stand, to add another chair, or to simply sit beside Ike. After another moment's hesitation, he sat down beside him.

"I took lessons for years," Soren said.

"Then you should play for us sometime," Ike said.

"It's useless; I can't reach the pedals."

"Here, I'll get them for you," Ike said. "Just tell me which one to push."

Soren began to play _Für Elise_. Ike remembered his mother playing this, remembered her voice as she hummed along, or the times she sang them to sleep.

"You go...like this."

He put his hands over Ike's and began to pick out another song, Canon in D .It was halting-and, at times, discordant-but slowly, they began to play the song hands were cool and smooth and small on top of Ike's own coarser hands. Playing piano didn't give him the sorts of callouses Ike had gotten from playing piano or working down by the stockyard.

"You're really good," Ike said.

"I should hope so with all the practicing I did. I'm afraid I can't say the same about you," Soren said.

"Well yeah, I've barely played. Being able to pick out a bit on a guitar doesn't transfer to automatic mastery of piano."

He even got the barest hints of a smile for this.

**.**

Dinner sort of felt like a math exam. There was much more silverware than he thought humanly possible. He ignored the little spoon, and when he did, Almedha looked at him like he had balanced on his nose. There was also the issue that Ike was a chronic soup slurper, and had a habit of using his pants and the edge of his sleeve instead of napkins. At this point, Ike wasn't sure if the hostile, icy stare which she gave him was personal or just her default expression.

He was pretty sure there was no way he was winning her over after this, but considering Soren's reaction to her, that might be a good thing.

**.**

As it turned out, both Pelleas' unnamed girl and her little brother were out of town that week, apparently on some protest about something or other–Ike got the impression they did this a lot. Almedha had turned in, citing a headache, something which Ike was grateful for. She made her displeasure very evident, and Ike always had the feeling she was one drink away from telling him to get her bags and put her car in garage, then dismissing him with a tip.

So instead, he just hung out with Soren. This wasn't exactly hanging out like he did with Ranulf, though. There wasn't epic video game battles followed by drinking contests and nights of clubbing where Ike got to be the designated driver by default. That wasn't exactly Soren's style. So here he was, leaning against Soren's dark bedspread with bats on it, while Soren leaned back and read. In lieu of posters of rock stars and actors, Soren had an old poster of the periodic table, a very plain calendar which most definitely did not contain pictures of puppies, and a few notes attached to a small bulletin board.

"Congratulations. You have met my crazy family," Soren said. He stared up at the ceiling. His hair fanned off over the pillow, slightly askew. Ike wanted to brush his fingers through it, put it back into place, but didn't.

"They didn't seem too bad," Ike said. "Probably couldn't have gone worse."

"Well, she didn't taser you," Soren said.

"There's that," Ike said. "You've sort of already met my crazy family. There's Mist, and the band, and the people I was raised with. They're all I have left, after my parents died."

Soren didn't say anything. He flipped another page over. Ike supposed the conversation had been deemed over, but then Soren cleared his throat.

"If you want me to say that I'm sorry and give empty condolence, I'm not going to," Soren said. He lifted his chin in stubborn defiance.

"It's okay; I wasn't looking for sympathy," Ike said.

"When people say that, they're never truly sorry..." Soren said. "Just sorry that the tragedy of your life has impeded on their happy day. It's a duty, nothing more."

"Yes, well..." Soren trailed off. "I'm sorry to have wasted your weekend."

"It's no big deal," Ike said. "I had fun."

Soren glanced at him, annoyed. "Yes, because this place is the epitome of excitement."

"It's not every day I hang out with royalty which manages to be cool and down to earth," Ike said.

"I was never cool in my life and you know it," Soren said. His tone was lighter now, almost genial.

"According to Ranulf, he patented cool and holds the copyright, so you may just be right on that one," Ike said.

They shared a smile, lingering for a moment, until Soren returned his attention to his book as if it was a shield. On second thought, it probably was.

"There's nothing to show around here," Soren said. "It doesn't have the long history that The Keep does. There's no shows, and barely even a library. This house isn't full of interesting nooks and crannies. Unless you want to hear about the history of wives, mistresses and other members of the court who were banished to live in this wasteland."

"Nah, I'm good," Ike said.

"There's an abbey nearby...and a lot of rocks. It's too dusty and dry for climbing or riding this time of year. Too cold most of the rest of the year. There isn't much to offer but my ever-so-pleasant company."

Ike shrugged. "It's all I need."

Soren fell quiet and looked at him for a long while, seeming to study him, and look for the hidden reasons behind this. Ike just leaned back and looked up at the ceiling. It was a dark place, like a prison. He wondered how long Soren had been here, locked away from the world. Most of his life, probably.

He leaned his hand against the bed and touched Soren's leg in a faint brush of condolences for all the life that Soren had missed-what had been stolen from him, that he had to be raised in this cold, unforgiving place.

He didn't think Soren got it, but it was okay.

Already the beginnings of another song were turning over in his head.


	3. Chapter 3

Title: The Girl In The Beret (or: Gay Hipster Love) (3/4)  
Series: FE10 (au)  
Character/Pairing: Ike/Soren main, background Boyd/Mist, Ranulf/everyone and Tibarn/Reyson.  
Summary: Soren doesn't like labels, Ike's never liked anyone, at least not like that until he sees the pretty 'girl' at the gig they're playing. Slowly they start a tentative friendship and figure out this thing between them along the way. Hipster AU. Ike/Soren, Boyd/Mist.

Author's note: I had to split it into more parts due to LJ restrictions on word count. Also, the poetry scene is entirely Ammy's fault! Among other things...Thanks to Joss for the beta. This continues to be In Rain's, and this is either a General Winter Holidays Gift which didn't come until nearly summer, or for the last of her freelance charity fills.

**.**

When he returned, his phone was filled with messages. It'd been on the nightstand which was actually a crate beside his bed. He poked through them before he even unpacked. There were several from Mist, one from Boyd, and at least five from Ranulf, four of which were nonsensical and obviously made while drunk, or possibly Ranulf was just trying to land on Texts From Last Night again.

He called Mist first but got a busy signal, so he left a message on voicemail and then dialed Ranulf.

"Yo, Ike! You were missing all weekend. Word around the street was that you got kidnapped by hobos. Tell me about it. Was it sexy?"

"No hobos this time. I met his family," Ike said. "His brother sort of dragged me along."

"Wait you _met his family?_That's supposed to come way, way later, if at all. What were they like? Was his mom hot?" Ranulf asked.

"You know how on crime shows on TV how they reveal how the serial killer got so messed up in the first place so that he'd make a lampshade out of human skin? It was sort of like that."

"Fffft, you _would_fall for the serial killer," Ranulf said. "Come on, shotgun some beer with me so we can celebrate this momentous occasion."

"I'll be there in ten," Ike said.

**.**

Ranulf had fashion sense and he was sensitive, so he was popular with the girls. He was also the most commitment-shy person Ike had ever met. However, while some had tried to blame him for liking both genders, he'd point out that it was just a Gallian thing. Cats weren't known for their fidelity, and most any relationships in Gallia tended to be of the open variety.

Ike didn't sit on Ranulf's so-called 'fabulous couch' because last time he had, he'd found a bra hidden in the cushions. Kyza had a hand in the decor. It was flashy, bright, filled with top of top of the line furniture, and filled with things which would make good openers for _would you like to go see this at my apartment?_

Ike sat on the green beanbag usually used for gaming sessions, because he was pretty sure Ranulf hadn't screwed someone on it. It was probably part of this 'bro code' Ranulf was always going on about.

what had happened in scant detail, with a lot of 'stuff's and 'oh yeah's. Ranulf sipped at his beer, and only added various, practically patented at this point 'Ranulf comments' until Ike got to the part about Soren's mother. Ranulf put his hand up midway through the recounting of the dinner scene to stop him.

"Whoa, wait, what? You said she had really tanned skin and a mark on her forehead?"

"Yeah, what about it?"

"Ike, you have a _Goldoan_ on your hands. This is a ten on the crazy scale. Remember how I told you that Gallian girls were amazing in bed and not so keen to settle down? Goldoans mate for life. They're at the top of the crazy and clingy scale from what I hear. They go to the first date and are already picking out the names of the three-point-five kids you're gonna have. Ike, this is code red–this is the _m word. Both of them_."

"Monogamy and marriage?" Ike said.

Ranulf drew back and hissed. "Don't say _those words_–you've jinx me tonight."

Ike rolled his eyes.

"Seriously, though, I say this as your friend. You've got to get out before it's too late and he starts picking out rings on the second date."

"I don't actually mind," Ike said.

"Wait, we're talking marriage. Sleeping with the same person for the rest of your life."

"Well, yeah," Ike said.

"Whatever you do, you can't Mosby it."

"What?"

"You know, like How I Met Your Mother? Okay, so, we're watching the pilot. Spoilers, he confesses to her, like, ten minutes in. That is pulling a Ted Mosby. It also has the most legendary beorc in the history of ever: Barney Stinson. He is truly a ladykiller to end all ladykillers. As you know by now, he is my hero."

"Wasn't he played by Neil Patrick Harris...who just recently adopted some twins with his lover?"

"Don't harsh the fantasy, man," Ranulf said.

**.**

Ike was idly plucking out the chords of _My Sweet Prince_by Placebo while the rest of the band hung around or chatted. Soren hadn't shown up. Family issues, he had said. After the visit to his family home last month, Ike almost sympathized. Ranulf had brought his own personal fans along, and they were wearing glittery t-shirts proclaiming them part of his fanclub. More than once, practice had been interrupted by how loud they were cheering for Ranulf. Eventually, they had just gone to mingle. Boyd was eating chips, with Mist sitting beside him, her hand on his arm. Ike looked over there every so often to ensure that both Boyd and Mist knew they were being watched.

Mist turned and stuck her tongue out at him and then turned back to Boyd. Ike strummed a discordant chord, and started again. He broke off when Ranulf tapped him on the shoulder.

"Ike, you need to learn the meaning of _sweet._Because that is one word that does not apply to him. At all."

"He's not as bad as you make him out to be. In fact, he can be downright civil at times," Ike said.

"You're freaking insane. In fact, it's worse. I think you're in _love,_" Ranulf said in disgust.

Ike looked up, a little thoughtful, his hands poised on his guitar.

"Maybe," Ike said.

It wasn't as if he'd had a lot of experience in the matter. It wasn't that he was scared, per se–or really, at all. It wasn't like some of the boys he knew who'd been so nervous about talking to girls. It was hard to explain, really. It was like this warm feeling – not unlike the feeling he got after eating something wonderful and filling, and likely containing ribs. Ranulf had always joked about that if Ike ever fell in love, there'd be some corollary to LOVE = RIBS, and somehow he'd been right.

The only reason he didn't blurt out _oh yeah, I kind of like you, I think_ was because for one, not even Ike was _that_ oblivious to the rules of love, and two, Soren had this feral quality which shied at the least hint of affection. Had he said outright that the song had been written for him, Soren would've probably slammed the door in his face and told him to never see him again.

Which was something he didn't want to risk, no matter how tempting it was to just sweep Soren up to him and kiss him and ignore the stupid rules of love.

"Also, that song is about the catnip," Ranulf said with a solemn nod.

"Seriously?" Ike asked.

"Seriously. Would I lie to you?"

"All the time," Ike said.

"Well, I'm not now," Ranulf said.

Ike raised an eyebrow.

"Seriously," Ranulf said.

**.**

The thing was, Ike was out of his element. He didn't know about this 'love' thing he might just be in. Trying to rectify this, he thought to what Soren would've done if he'd been in his situation. The answer was obvious: He'd have gone to the library and taken out whole sections, just like he did for papers, and seemingly everything else. However, the attempts to right himself didn't exactly help. He didn't see what space travel had to do with it, and reading _The Rules_ which sounded so promising – being a rulebook and all–was actually horrific in the sense that people actually thought it would work or paid money for it. When Ranulf and Mist and Boyd returned with much-needed provisions, he put the book on the couch and helped them. He peered in the bags, finding a lot of red meat for the freezer, and made a beeline for the barbeque chips.

Mist slapped his hands away. "Those are for dinner!"

"But I'm hungry now," Ike said.

"Well, you'll just have to wait," Mist said. She marched into the kitchen to start dinner. Ranulf, in all his curiosity, had already plucked up one of the books and raised an eyebrow. "_Really_, Ike?"

Ike shrugged. "It said they were rules. I didn't even know there _were_ rules, but I figured I might as well follow them if there were. Listen to this: 'Don't return his calls, don't pay attention to him'."

"Yeah, last girl who did that was Lethe. She didn't call me back because she was a lesbian and didn't want me," Ranulf said. "Her sister volunteered in her stead, though."

"And this one says that the more 'into you' a guy is, the better it is," Ike said.

"Oh man, I remember when Reyson had this big rich dude really _into him_. They never got a restraining order because Reyson liked seeing him get beat up too much, even though punching him put Rey in the hospital at one point."

"Also, I don't think the 'be feminine, never leave the house without lipstick' applies to me," Ike said.

"Well it could, if you'd go party with Kyza and me for once..." Ranulf said with a wry smile.

"I'll pass," Ike said.

"But seriously, Ike. I'm the coolest cat around. I am a freaking love god. You should've asked me!" Ranulf said, adjusting his rainbow beanie. He put his arm around Ike's shoulder. "I should write a book: _The Gay Guy's Guide To Dating Nihilistic Angry Hipster Boys_."

"I'd read it," Ike said. He tossed the book away. "It can't be worse than these."

**.**

He was biding his time. Soren made himself some noodles–a staple of any college student–and sat down with a book he had due by Wednesday which would come complete with a five-page essay on the heroic archetype. He'd already begun to test out the beginning in his mind. To say that Soren prepared ahead was an understatement. He'd already begun collecting for his thesis, and had the beginning and end mapped out, while the middle remained elusive.

He had some green tea as well to keep him up as he finished; it did not, however, ensure mental focus.

His mind kept wandering...he found himself adding in traits of heroes _an overlying protectiveness, such as walking home and guarding someone, especially a love interest, or the buying of food..._

He'd shake it off and try to convince himself it was coincidental, meaningless, a simple slip of the mind. Deep down, he knew it wasn't.

With a sigh, he opened his cell phone. He stared at the screen a moment, still debating whether to touch the buttons or simply shut it and force whatever restlessness had come over him away. He had stayed away after visiting his mother because he couldn't justify a visit with Ike. They weren't friends, lovers, or anything else, and their only tenuous connection was through music. At this point, his colleagues were only getting the wrong idea and turning his supposed 'love life' into the next local gossip.

Then again...

It was just coffee. It wouldn't be the end of the world if he saw Ike again. And if that meant he could focus again, then so be it.

He didn't allow himself to focus deeper on Ike after that, or on what this might mean.

**.**

The last gig had been at a coffeehouse on 3rd street in downtown Melior, and it hadn't been too bad. Well, except for the new stalker he'd apparently gained sometime. Ike was still boggling about that. He'd been washing his hands for the past minute or so, and the bottom silvery kitchen sink was filled with suds.

"She threw _underwear _at the stage. Who the hell does that?" Ike said incredulously.

Ranulf patted Ike on the shoulder. "It was a nice catch, though."

"I think they were used," Ike said. He grimaced and used his elbow to turn the stream of water even hotter.

"I think that's the point, Ike," Ranulf said. "Think of the bright side: you officially have your first stalker. Which means you're well on the way to being a mainstream sellout that everyone will hate."

"What about you?" Ike asked. He turned from the stream of water, which was now pure hot.

"I will become a fabulous rock star and roll in bags of money," Ranulf said.

A tinny rendition of _The Girl In The Beret_ sounded somewhere under the pile of Ike's mission bag.

"Loverboy is calling," Ranulf said.

"You reset my ringtone," Ike stated.

"Not only did I reset your ringtone, I now have a special one alerting you when he calls. You're welcome, by the way," Ranulf said. "I'm even not answering the phone or implying that you are 'still in the shower.' Consider it an early anniversary gift."

"We're not even together," Ike said.

"Oh, but you will be. I'm psychic about these things, you know," Ranulf said. He grinned like a Cheshire cat and left the room. Ike quickly wiped his wet hands on his pants. They were scrubbed raw and red.

"Soren," Ike said. "Hey. What's up?"

Over the phone, Soren cleared his throat, seemingly taken aback.

"A little cat told me," Ike said. "Also, like, it's there on the screen."

"Of course," Soren said tersely.

"Yeah," Ike said.

The line was silent, with neither of them talking for a minute. Ike wasn't too good at phone conversations, largely because he had a habit of nodding or shaking his head and forgetting that people couldn't see that.

"So..." Ike began.

"Tomorrow I have to cover a few local bands. Would you like to accompany me and scout them?"

"Sure. What time?" Ike said without a second thought.

It was just as Soren began listing the time right down to the second that Ike remembered he'd promised Mist he'd help with moving her couch. Ike decided as he wrote on his still slightly damp arm, that it was about time he called in those favors Ranulf was always promising when he dragged Ike out for clubbing, or other things involving vast amounts of bright lights and body glitter.

**.**

Ike had a crooked grin and tousled hair with a stained _Queen_ shirt. The bottoms of his jeans were rolled up over his dusty, seen-better-days sneakers. Soren objectively had to say that he could understand why Ike was so attractive to women, even if he himself was not affected by this charm. It was the unassuming nature of him, the sincerity and lack of games and pretension that finalized it and made him from 'cute guy' to 'marriage material'. Or so he hypothesized, having no interest or personal experience in the matter.

Ike had a big stack of books which Soren needed for his class. He got lucky with gleaning the thrifts and had gotten a few for his classes, a few simple purchases to cover the gaps in his library.

"Anything else you need?" Ike asked. He seemed rather unbothered by the gigantic stack of books which was likely heavy enough to crush a man.

"Clothes. I need some sweaters...warmer clothes, and pants," Soren said. "It's tedious. You're welcome to leave if you wish."

"Nah. I might find something too, anyways."

"Suit yourself," Soren said.

Soren picked up a large tan sweater with a very high collar.

"You're going to be swimming in that," Ike said. "It'll probably be around your knees."

"Like a tunic," Soren murmured.

"Yeah, like that."

"It's warm and reasonably priced," Soren said.

He put it in the bag. They were having a sale. Ike looked about, and noted a fedora placed on a hatrack between aisles. He plucked it up and put it on.

"What do you think?" Ike said.

Soren looked up. "I think you're going to get head lice."

Ike pulled off the fedora and looked inside. He didn't put it back, though. "I think I might be onto something."

"Vintage blazers are on the other side," Soren said. He pulled up a Smiths shirt which had seen better days and put it in his bag.

Ike dropped by, and pulled on a black blazer.

"It looks pretty plain to me. Not like Gushy or anything," Ike said.

"Simplicity is good. Your strengths don't lie in fancy pinstripe suits, but casual applications of dressing up dressing down."

Ike gave Soren the once over. "Did you get body-switched with Ranulf when I wasn't looking?"

Soren pursed his lips. "I share classes with a certain Gallian who gives advice on fashion. He's started bonding with my mother these days. It seems to have rubbed off despite my better efforts."

Ike chuckled at this. Soren rolled his eyes. "Let's just get going."

Ike hoisted the bags without being asked to. Soren didn't complain because carrying them would've been a pain anyways.

**.**

They were sitting shoulder to shoulder in the booth. Soren had the bags at his feet, because somehow he thought that someone–perhaps crowds of militant hipsters–would steal his bag of tomes and used clothes which would probably make Ranulf cry inside. There was plaid in there and even Ike raised an eyebrow on the babyshit brown thing-which-claimed-to-be-a-sweater Soren bought. (He claimed it was a 'sleeping sweater')

Ike remembered the way Almedha had reacted to these clothes, so he assumed it was a mix of wanting to disappoint his mother and saving money that made Soren do this. Ike never personally went through that phase, having had his mother die when he was young, and his father die when he was seventeen, but he'd heard Ranulf talk about 'daddy issues' enough to get the gist.

"I have an outing I have to cover tomorrow," Soren said. "Some festival of some kind, local bands."

"Early on?" Ike said.

"No, not until the evening," Soren said. He checked the black, transparent sports watch on his tiny wrist.

"Cool. Who's playing?" Ike said.

"I Hate Myself And Want To Die," Soren said.

"I didn't think it was an emo convention," Ike said.

"It's not. They're being ironic. In fact, they mostly sing upbeat love songs. Jesus Stole My Sailboat is opening for them," Soren said.

"Ooh, I've been wanting to hear more of them. Let's Go Surfing With Noah And Pedro (Jesus Can Come Too) was a great single."

Soren thought to himself. "Nonsexual Asscrack will be there, as well as Utility Persian and This Is Our Clever Title."

"Do they just spend all day thinking of witty names to make people spit out their coffee when they hear them?"

Soren cleared his throat. "Coming from the guy who sings the lead vocals of _Steal This Band?_"

"Point taken," Ike said.

They lingered over coffee a little longer until Soren checked his watch, and they left enough for the waitress in question. Soren seemed tired of talking-and perhaps a bit moody-so Ike let him be. Ike paid out the bus fare and Soren let him. There was a motley assortment there: a female Gallian with braids arguing with a male with the silver marks of tiger stripes on his face. Soren pulled up his hoodie as he passed. He turned up his music to shut out the world. Ike didn't press him, didn't try and make conversation. After a short while, Soren handed him one of the ear buds, almost as a peace offering. Ike took it, and heard a soft, largely instrumental piece. It wasn't usually what he listened to, but he liked it. It blended together into the background as he watched the lights of the city come alive as the sun set.

Ike didn't remember much of the concert. Jesus Stole My Sailboat was good, but it didn't have the effect that song from earlier did. He found himself being more distracted by little things, like when someone in the crowd would shift, and the back of Soren's hand would brush his own.

On the way back, they split the MP3 player's earbuds again. (Ike was sure that Ranulf would've made a joke about joint custody had he been there.) Ike shifted through the playlist until he found the song again. It had a light, airy, breathless sound to it that summed up his mood just right.

"I didn't think it was your kind of music," Soren said.

"I guess I'm learning a whole lot of new things about myself today," Ike said.

.

Three days later, Ranulf was waiting for him with that smile that meant he was up to something. He looked up from the bass guitar he was tuning, and waved Ike over to where the rest of the band was setting up.

"I've got awesome plans which will make us rich and ironically not famous," Ranulf said.

"Be careful, or we might go mainstream and lose our fanbase," Ike said.

"We'll always have heart. Or maybe we'll sell out and get lots of money, but then we can buy gold hearts, and pretend we have heart," Ranulf said.

Ike shrugged. "Sounds good to me."

"By the way, look at these beauties," Ranulf said. He kicked at a box, which Ike realized was in fact, new, and not like all the other assorted boxes which made up his furniture.

Soren came in just behind Mist. "Your _friend_ is here," Mist said. She had the same tone of voice she used when she was much younger and used to call him to the door with _oooh Ike, your giiiiirlfriend is here._vIt had taken Ike many years to realize that girlfriend did not, in fact, mean simply a female friend. It also might have explained some of the awkward glances he got when he talked about his 'boyfriend'.

"Apparently, Ranulf had t-shirts made," Ike said. He handed Soren a woman's shirt with capped sleeves, same size as Mist, though they varied in color. Hers was pink with flowers, while his was black with _Steal This Band _in ragged white letters.

"...Were they made by a drunk hobo?" Soren asked.

"Probably," Ike said. "Ranulf does corner the market when it comes to drunken hobos."

Soren lifted up the shirt, probably specially made in preshrunk extra-extra-small. He cleared his throat. "How much do I owe you?"

"It's a gift," Ike said.

"I can't accept this," Soren said.

"Too late, you've got your cooties on it, so it's yours," Ranulf said, leaning in.

"...cooties? What are you, twelve?"

"Five is closer, but you're the one who said I was childish to begin with!"

Soren shook his head. "Every time I think you can't get any more puerile, you prove me wrong.

Fine. I'll pay you back in something that doesn't involve monetary reciprocity, Ike."

Ranulf made a frat boy _woo!_behind them. Soren just shook his head.

"You have to admit you were asking for it when you put it like that," Ike said.

"Seriously, when even _Ike _can see how it could be perverted, there's something wrong," Ranulf cut in.

Soren glared at him for a moment, then turned his back and ignored him.

It's ironic, 'cause I'm the cat here," Ranulf said.

Ranulf was always all about the irony. He brought it up whenever he could.

**.**

Ike had been at work at the song for ages. There'd been the setback of writing on cocktail napkins and having Mist accidentally throw it out. But now he had it mostly done. It was quite a bit more simplistic than his first song, but it was meant to be soft and soothing. Personally, he'd wanted it to be set to piano, but he couldn't play well enough to pull it off, and it was very much his project. Boyd had made a few grousing remarks about how I_ke is practically going solo_. Ranulf had corrected him with a _No, he's in love._

Ike wasn't sure he'd put it like that. He was in something. He'd never held hands or stolen kisses in his younger years. He spent his teen years being confused to the explosion of hormones around him, and then, too grief struck to even think about love.

Ike dialed the number. One ring. Two. Three... A breath. A terse hello.

Ike never went halfway with anything. He blurted out things. His father was always reprimanding him for saying exactly what he thought, regardless of the situation. Keeping back wasn't his way, and it was only the thought that Soren might be hurt in the process that really made him keep quiet.

It had only been two months, but for Ike, that was time enough to tell.

"Yes?" Soren said. There was an edge to his voice, but there always was. Ike never took it personally.

"Ranulf has some art show thing he wants me to come along to," Ike said.

"Let me guess, they will attempt to imitate Picasso in their 'modernist workings' and look more like children with fingerpaints?"

"Probably," Ike said. "Ranulf hangs with some pretty pretentious people."

"So why are you inviting me? Is this a case of 'misery loves company'?"

"You'd make it tolerable," Ike said.

"I suppose," Soren said.

"So you're going?" Ike said.

"Hmmm...all right. My coworkers are too annoying to deal with at the moment, anyways," Soren said.

"They'll still be annoying when you return," Ike said.

"Yes, there's that," Soren said. "But at least I won't have to deal with them for this short period of time. They took to coming to my apartment and Marcia tried to 'give me a makeover.'"

"So meet you tomorrow?"

"Yes, Ike," Soren said.

**.**

Soren had a pair of thick, round and black glasses on when Ike came in that he hadn't seen before. Really, they were quite plain, and didn't even look emo. And yet they kept drawing his eye.

"What?" Soren said.

"I didn't know you had glasses, that's all," Ike said.

Soren rolled his eyes. "It's not that exotic. My eyes are weak and get rather tired with long study sessions."

Glasses gave Soren even more of an intellectual air, if possible. He wore a black turtleneck which had a silvery sheen in the lighting of the gallery, and a pair of black jeans with a rip in the left knee. They had by sheer accident worn the exact same kind of beat-up brown sneakers, except Ike's were a whole lot bigger. (Ike wondered if Soren had to wear girly shoes as well as girlpants. Whatever it was, he'd better never let Mist know, or she'd never stop trying to go shoe shopping with him.)

They'd met in front of the coffee shop on 54th street, which was within walking distance to the gallery Ranulf had invited them to see. Ike wasn't really an art guy. Dogs playing poker wasn't bad, but he couldn't tell cubism from a beer can sculpture. Actually, with a beer can sculpture he'd wonder if the person was really drunk at the time, and remember that time Ranulf had been drunk and a little high on catnip and tried to draw on the walls with an eraser. It'd made sense on the catnip, at least.

The only thing that helped them decide where to go was how thick the crowd was. Wherever they wouldn't be bumping elbows with anyone, that's where they'd go. Soren tended to get irritated and antsy in crowds, and considering he'd already be raging at the artists, Ike figured it was best to try and keep to the less traveled paths, or something. The first they came across was a large canvass. There was a large smiley – or frowny? It wasn't exactly smiling—In essence, it was a flip of the familiar consumer image of the yellow smiley face, except black and white with a thin stip of mustache over its lip, and a bit of black hair which looked a bit emo. The title was _Monochrome Bourgeois_.

"I think I've heard some of their stuff before," Ike said.

The next resembled smeared fingerpaints and looked like it had been stolen from a kindergarten classroom.

"It's a good thing I'm not an art critic," Soren muttered.

"Yeah, how would those poor kindergartners ever deal?" Ike said.

They looked to each other, and saw that each had thought the same. They shared something like a smile, or would have, had Soren not turned away and stared at the wall as if it was utterly _fascinating._

That wasn't to say the art was all bad. There was a colorful and bizarre view of a Begnionian marketplace which Soren noted to be particularly cubist; a dark and gritty portrait of Ashnard the Bloody which Soren did not linger at, and an amazing sculpture featuring a pack of wolves hung from the ceiling on wires, they were running upsidedown up the stairs, and both Ike and Soren nearly hurt their necks craning to see all of that one.

Soren was visibly indifferent to most of the paintings, revealing little. The only time he did reveal his feelings about any of the art, it was disgust. Ike couldn't exactly go on about art. Art was...art. He couldn't go on about the 'lovely use of shadows' or this or that type. Ike didn't _do_ pretension.

Just in front of them was a pair of women, and a sulky teenager in baggy Begnionian clothes. One of them turned to look–she was the more feminine of the two, with long aquamarine hair.

"What a sweet couple," she said. Even Ike, who Ranulf constantly said had no gaydar, could spot them. One had a soccer mom look about her, with a sweater tied around her shoulders and a light yellow shirt.

"This gallery is pathetic. Is this all Crimea has to offer? If so, then visiting this _sinkhole of a place _is no vacation!" Said the teenager. She had crossed her arms and was in full out sulk mode.

"Lady Sanaki, it's almost done, and wasn't that sculpture nice?" Said the motherly woman.

"You should listen to your mothers," Ike said. Both women seemed to pale at this mention.

"We're her bodyguards," Cut in the other woman. She was taller than the soccer mom type, with short cut hair and a flannel shirt and jeans.

"And we're merely..." Soren seemed unsure what word to end with. "...companions."

"Oh, dear," she chuckled. "One day you'll realize the obvious. Come now, Lady Sanaki, I wouldn't want you to catch cold, this place is quite drafty."

"Carry me, Tanith," Sanaki said sullenly. "My feet hurt."

"I told you to wear better shoes," Tanith said, but she bent down to comply and Sanaki got on her back.

"And your closet is so transparent as to be pathetic," Soren muttered angrily. He crossed his arms in a sulk almost the size of the teenage girl's.

"It's not a big deal, Soren," Ike said. He hadn't thought Soren to be prejudiced.

"Her arrogance, her tone–implying they know me better than myself after two seconds–it's _infuriating_." Soren said. "She knows _nothing_ about me—"

"I don't think she meant anything by it," Ike said.

Soren scoffed, but said no more. Ike didn't want to end on a note with Soren raging. It wasn't even the fun raging where he sounded like an old man ranting at the state of kids today (complete with mention of them being on his damn lawn.) Really, coffee was the last thing he needed.

"How about we hit one of the coffeehouses here? Maybe get some herbal tea or something?"

"And now you're presuming to know what's in my best interests?" Soren said. He wasn't as enraged this time, and looked over Ike with searching eyes.

"I'm no expert, but I'm guessing that coffee is the last thing you need right now," Ike said. "But maybe some tea...what, wasn't chamomile good or something? Mist always makes me get it when she's...you know."

Soren raised a brow. "There's a story there."

"You mean the one where I have to go to the store to get feminine stuff? Ranulf proclaimed me the manliest man he's ever known for that. Even Tibarn barely withstood the force of Maxi pads with wings."

"I see," Soren said, but it wasn't clipped, the sound even something nearing amusement, or at least as amused as he ever got. "I suppose there is something to be said about a man whose heroism extends to the tampax aisle," Soren said dryly.

"You're laughing at my feats?" Ike said with mock incredulity.

"Do I look like I'm laughing?" Soren countered, but it lacked any real edge, or even sarcasm. When he turned, Ike caught the hint of a smile.

"I despise people who think they have some innate better knowledge of yourself..." Soren said. He sounded almost apologetic, or at least as apologetic as he'd ever get. Soren shook his head.

"It's no problem," Ike said.

They went to the nearest coffee shop. On the corner booth was a man with a kinky pink manfro and a sizable beard. The other was a redhead in the wool knit cap and neon body suit and yellow sneakers.

The redhead nodded towards him. "Isn't that the singer from _Steal That Band_?"

"I liked him better before he went big, back when he was just in a garage band and the guy in the bar next to me would always yell to them to shut up because he had a hangover. Good times, man. Good times. "

"See ya, man. I'm off to light Roman candles with Sothe," the redhead said. They fistbumped, sort of, because the guy with the pink manfro seemed pretty smashed already. Ike didn't think it was just cream in his latte.

Soren picked a seat near in the worst seat in the place, a corner near the back where the least amount of people were, and it was at its dreariest.

"We can pick a window seat if you want," Ike said.

"This is fine," Soren said. He shrunk back and glared as a pair of girls passed him, gossiping about their day and picking out the window seat Ike had just offered. Ike figured Soren had hit his people limit today, and didn't push it.

Ike picked up the coffee in bought Soren black, no-frills coffee, and some caramel macchiato for himself, just because Ranulf had been insisting that it was better than sex the past few weeks. The girl at the front smiled a lot. He thought she must have some sort of problem, given how hard her lashes were fluttering. He thought it best not to stare, and looked at the dessert stand instead. In the end, he picked up some tiramasu simply to try it, and got Soren some just in case. When he came back, he frowned at the little numbers written on the coffee sleeve.

"Coffee comes with serial numbers now?" Ike said.

Soren rolled his eyes. "She left you her number. You're such a woman magnet."

"Apparently," Ike said. "Ranulf usually has to inform me of these things."

Soren just shook his head.

Ike pushed the box of tiramasu over to Soren. "Thought you might be hungry," he said.

"Thanks," Soren said flatly. He didn't make a move towards the box. He was peeling the sleeve off of his cup, occasionally taking a sip of the chamomile tea.

"Something the matter?" Ike asked.

Soren turned his gaze to Ike. He looked more than a little guarded. "No."

"Okay," Ike said. He left it at that. Soren returned his attention to mangling his cup.

Finally Soren sighed. He opened his cell phone and fiddled with it, not meetng Ike's gaze. "Since you pulled me to this exhibit they claim to be art, I think it's only right that you should repay the favor."

"Sure, what have you got in mind?" Ike asked.

"Poetry Day at The Listless Mourning," Soren said.

Suddenly Ike understood when Boyd complained about getting dragged to musicals and romantic comedy marathons.

"It's only fair, I guess," Ike said.

"Only fair?" Soren asked.

Ike cleared his throat. "I mean, I'd be happy to go."

**.**

When Soren came home, Marcia sat on his table with her legs crossed. He was entirely not in the mood to deal with people, especially Marcia.

"How did you get into my apartment?" Soren said.

"Heather has some really interesting skills," she said. "But more importantly, you didn't answer your phone."

"I was out," Soren said vaguely.

"Alone?"

"It's none of your business," Soren snapped.

Marcia shook her head. "Oh, crackers. You poor, poor thing. You're _so_dating and you don't even realize it."

Soren just glowered at her.

"Either way, you're late for your editorial, you silly onion," she said in a singsong voice.

"I already sent it in," Soren said.

"That was _last_ week's," Marcia said. "You're really slipping up, huh?"

Soren blinked. He never slipped up. He'd once gotten an A-, but that was only because he corrected the teacher in front of the class and the teacher held grudges. After that display, Soren worked on the chain of command until he got said teacher fired.

He counted down the days. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday... Yes, he had missed a day. It would've been due the day of the art gallery, but he'd forgotten when he got home.

"Amazing, I didn't think you could be wrong," Marcia said. She giggled. "Looks like even you are capable of making mistakes."

Soren didn't respond and simply pulled out his laptop, hoping she'd get the hint. For once, she did, and didn't hover over his shoulder and say happy things. Soren wasn't sure he could take anymore happy, hopeful ideology today.

**.**

Soren wore a purple hoodie, his ever-present iPod snaking out from it. He had on a different pair of glasses than the first Ike had seen, a more rectangular, clear pair than the first.

"I didn't even know you had color in your wardrobe," Ike said.

Soren looked more than a little perturbed at this mention. "It's Marcia's. She threatened to send me ironically to cover a Taylor Swift concert if I didn't wear something with color."

"That'd do it," Ike said.

The Listless Mourning looked a little more full than usual. The lights were low and someone was on stage, checking the microphones. For a minute, Ike wondered what bands were on tonight. Then, that train of thought was broken when the guy in a green hoodie tapped the microphone.

"Testing. One, two, three...It's The Listless Mourning's poetry night," he said. He seemed to reek teenage angst from every thoroughly exfoliated pore.

There was no applause, though one or two of the group might have murmured that they liked poetry before it became mainstream. Ike couldn't be sure, but he assumed.

"A poetry reading? I didn't think this would be your sort of thing," Ike said.

"It isn't," Soren said. "But coffee is half price today–it's the only way they can bribe us through the atrocious things they claim to be 'art'."

"We could just go to Starbucks, you know," Ike said.

Soren snorted derisively. "If Marcia was here, she'd say that Starbucks was a bourgeoisie cancer which is killing the world."

"Bourgeoisie, really?" Ike said. He didn't even have a clue what that meant.

"I, on the other hand, merely point out that Starbucks is painfully mainstream and their overpriced coffee tastes _burned_," Soren said. It seemed a damning blow, so much that a guy two tables away in day-glo short shorts snapped three times in the pattern of a z and said _oooh, buuurned_.

"I do go there from time to time to use their wireless, though," Soren said. He took a sip of coffee.

On the stage, lights began to flicker. Ike and Soren looked over, idly surveying the scene.

"Give it up for Hungry Girl," the guy said in an indifferent manner. He left, and went to a nearby booth where the guy in day-glo hot pants and an oversized shirt was. He inexplicably also wore a cape.

A waifish girl with light purple hair teetered up to the stage.

"I'm so hungry..." she read aloud. "So hungry. My stomach is like...an empty jar...a jar empty of food."

She teetered, as if she might fall off the stage. Her voice became plaintive, as she addressed the audience.

"My soul is sad. And without food. Please feed me..."

At this, she did topple off the stage, landing in a heap with a moan. A blonde in pleather pants and a rainbow camisole pushed several other hipster guys out of the way to come to her aid.

"The fainting was a nice touch," Ike said. He sipped at his coffee.

The room fairly quiet for a few minutes, with only the murmur of conversation around them as the girl was taken care of. The blond waved a sandwich in front of the girl's nose, and she came to almost immediately.

The boy got up, sullenly and came over to the microphone again. "Next up, with some special slam poetry is Hipsterella with _Ode To My Vagina_.

The same blond stode up. Now Ike realized he'd seen her at a couple concerts. She always had a way of sticking out. Also, he'd once caught her trying to lure his sister away to the back to 'get to know her better'. It had left a lasting impression, to say the least. She wore a camisole with a rainbow background, a picture of a rooster with a red circle and a line over it. There were many jelly bracelets over her wrists, and she snapped one against her wrist and looked seductively out at the crowd.

Soren made a disapproving noise in the back of his throat. Ike had to admit that this pretty much summed up his feelings on the matter. Soren pulled out his MP3 player. "This is how I survive poetry night."

"Good idea," Ike said. "I left mine at home, though."

Soren looked at him in a quizzical manner, as if leaving his MP3 player behind was akin to leaving his wallet, car keys, or _right arm _at home.

"It happens," Ike said. He shrugged. Soren shook his head as if he couldn't imagine a worse fate.

Soren pulled out one of the ear buds and handed it to Ike.

"Here," Soren said.

Ike gladly took it as Hipsterella began to wax poetic about her vagina while the purple-haired waifish girl feebly made the sounds of a beatbox. It was mostly drowned out by the sound of his own voice over the earbud.

_"I keep watching for her when I'm drinking coffee, playing chords, and I'm wondering if she knows this song's about her..."_

"You're listening to our song," Ike said.

"Excuse me?" Soren said above the noise of the song and Hipsterella's so-called poetry.

"Our song as in my band's song, not _our song._"

"Of course," Soren said. He took a sip of coffee. Ike took this chance to take a peek at the screen. _The Girl In The Beret _was listed as one of the most listened to songs, and on Soren's favorites playlist.

That made it worth even enduring the few words of Hipsterella's slam poetry which were loud enough to slip in over the music. He was pretty sure the refrain of _squish, squish_ would give him nightmares.

**.**

Two weeks later, he was on Soren's doorstep. He hadn't called–in hindsight he probably should've. However, when Ike had a task at hand, he just went for it.

So that's what he was doing.

Soren opened the door a crack and stared out.

Ike inclined his head, and waved. Soren let him in without another question.

"It's our demo. I wanted your opinion on it," Ike said.

"If you're looking for ego-stroking, you're looking to the wrong person," Soren said. He pushed up his glasses–a thick, emo looking pair this time.

"Actually, I was looking for crit. If it can pass by you, the critics–and maybe others–are sure to like it," Ike said.

"If you say so," Soren said. He was looking at the tracklist, and Ike had the overwhelming urge to kiss the bridge of his nose. Inexplicable, really. Must've been the glasses. Did he have a fetish or something? Ranulf would never let him live this one down.

It was really only Soren clearing his throat that stopped Ike from just going and kissing him right there. There was this family joke that went something like 'Thinking: the two second pause before Ike does something' which was something of an exaggeration. There was at least five seconds before thought became action. Really.

"So Ranulf really wishes to land some record deal?" Soren queried. He pushed up his glasses, and looked impassively back at him.

"I guess," Ike said. "He says we should at least release something for the fans that isn't just live."

"Fair enough."

Ike looked around the apartment, his hands in the pockets of his ratty, faded jeans. There was no form of decoration, no family photos, nothing but a lot of books and the basics for furniture. Soren was ripping stuff at his laptop. He wasn't exactly techy, but Ike had to admit that he knew this was a seriously powerful piece of equipment.

"Ooh, classic," Ike remarked as he looked over Soren's sprawling playlist. It seemed to be made up of nothing but The Cure and The Smiths.

"I ripped them from vinyl," Soren barely looked up from the program he was running.

"Hardcore," Ike said. "I think."

"Nice apartment. Nice and...clean," Ike said.

"I was in the dorms for a while," Soren said. His lips pursed, which was a clear indication of what he'd thought of that. Ike had spent some time living with some self-proclaimed party animals, and could only imagine what Soren had been subjected to.

Soren's fridge was a little scary. Not _Wheatgrass_ scary, but there wasn't a six pack to be seen, and it was _clean. _No green fuzzy takeout with a container of relish from the dark ages. There was not a hamburger or plate of ribs in sight. Checking the cupboards, he found there was, however, a large bag of rice, lots and lots of noodles, and copious amounts of tea and coffee. Either way, there was nothing he could really just grab and eat, unless he wanted to eat a tomato. Which he didn't.

"I'm going to order in. Do you have any preferences?"

"None whatsoever," Soren said.

"Greasy Pepperoni pizza it is," Ike said.

Soren turned around and gave him a cold stare.

"With vegetable pizza for you," Ike amended. "Or maybe just vegetables."

Soren focused on the songs, looking thoughtful, and anything but relaxed. He had never actually seen Soren in a state of relaxation, and wasn't sure he could even reach a state of true calm, where he wasn't reading for his next test while balancing his checkbook and cooking meals for the next month.

The pizza guy stood there, looking bored. Ike noted it was the same guy from The Listless Mourning. His green hair was slicked back with a ton of hair gel. He looked somewhat less sullen when Ike handed him a wad of bills.

"Keep the change," Ike said.

Ike had a habit of over-tipping. It had nothing to do with impressing people and everything to do with the fact that he had done temp jobs over his teen years and knew how much they sucked. He opened up the box to the inviting aroma. He'd gotten half and half. His part had every kind of meat available, while Soren's had, like, herbs or something.

Ike did a banjo line with the cheese strings on his pizza as he lifted it up It was something better done with Boyd and Ranulf, who'd get a whole pizza jug band going. Soren, for his defense, didn't roll his eyes too much or call him an idiot or throw his slice at Ike. Possibly because he was too busy cutting up the pizza into little slices and eating it with a fork and wiping his mouth with a napkin after every bite–which was of course, chewed thirty times.

Soren was honestly a mystery sometimes. If he went into Soren's room, he was sure that he wouldn't find any wadded up clothes on the floor. That kind of cleanness was somewhere between fascinating and wondering if Soren really was the same species as him.

Soren had an mp3 charger that also doubled as a speaker set up on the table. Ike plopped down his, and set it to a playlist of only two songs.

"Was this the demo that you wanted me to listen to?" Soren asked.

"No," Ike said. "It's something I've been working on."

The song only had a low acoustic in the background. It gave it a more intimate air.

_Close your eyes_  
_the world isn't so bad_  
_it's far away, far away_  
_and I'm here to stay_  
_I'm here to stay_

"What was the title of this one?" Soren said with a frown of concentration. "I couldn't quite catch it."  
He looked up at Ike, wary now.

"It's called Soren's Lullaby," Ike said.

Soren fell quiet. There was just the sound of the acoustic guitar, and Ike's voice. It was a raw, stripped bare song, full of his feeling.

Soren bit his lower lip. "I wonder if she knows this song is about her..." Soren said, speaking the lyric from _The Girl In The Beret _aloud.

"It was about you," Ike said.

"...I'm not female," Soren said.

"It's an understandable mistake," Ike said with a shrug. "You were wearing girlpants."

Soren shook his head, stepping back. He looked cagey, as if he wanted to run for the nearest exit. "What...what am I to make of this?"

"I don't know. I've never really been interested in anyone before," Ike said. "It's all new to me."

"As if you'd feel the same after spending any sort of time with me," Soren said bitterly.

"There's been no changes," Ike said. "Not after I found out you were a guy or really interacted with you. Through it all, I still like you. I don't know how to explain it except...I like being around you. I like your opinions and I like listening to you talk. And your hair. I really like your hair."

Soren reached up so touch his hair self-consciously. "But I still don't know what you're trying to tell me," Soren said, sounding a bit panicked. "Love at first sight is most illogical and banal. I always roll my eyes when it comes up."

"Relax, Soren. Everything is going to be all right."

Soren tried to calm himself with several sharp breaths. Ike reached out to touch his arm, to comfort him, but Soren drew back and looked at him warily.

"That's why I wrote the second one. I wasn't going to sing it originally here, but...it just felt right.. I just wanted you to be calmer and sleep better, I guess," Ike said. "You're always so wound up."

"Love doesn't exist in anything but fiction, and that is done in the most banal and saccharine terms. Heroes...love...gods, they're just things we create in fiction to warm ourselves at night because the we beorc can't accept that the world is just that cold and dark," Soren said. His voice grew higher at this, thinner and more desperate.

He shook his head again and again, looking more like he'd just been broken up with instead of confessed to.

"Soren..."

He finally closed his eyes. He forced himself to take more even breaths, and seemed to be counting or something. _Finding his inner calm_ Ranulf had called it. Okay, Ranulf had used another term, but it was basically the same thing. When he opened his eyes again, Soren's gaze was piercing and cold.

"I think you should go," Soren said.

"If that's what you want," Ike said. "Listen Soren, I'll call later—"

"Don't," Soren said. He waited stiffly at the door as Ike grabbed his coat. Ike nodded a goodbye, but Soren didn't respond, or even incline his head.

Soren closed the door behind Ike the minute he was out the door. Ike heard the bolt close behind him. For a while he just stood in the hallway, taking in what had happened. Then he started walking, almost on instinct towards home.

It was only when he was almost home that Ike realized he'd left his MP3 player there. However, at this moment it didn't seem too important, given how his first brush with love had gone.

Ike sat against the cold, stone steps in front of his apartment complex. He looked up at the sky, only finding the reflection of city lights. It was unseasonably cold.


	4. Chapter 4

Title: The Girl In The Beret (or: Gay Hipster Love) (4/4)  
Series: FE10 (au)  
Character/Pairing: Ike/Soren main, background Boyd/Mist, Ranulf/everyone.  
Summary: Soren doesn't like labels, Ike's never liked anyone, at least not like that until he sees the pretty 'girl' at the gig they're playing. Slowly they start a tentative friendship and figure out this thing between them along the way. Hipster AU. Ike/Soren, Boyd/Mist.  
Author's note: I had to split it due to lj restrictions. Thanks to Joss for the beta. Still for In Rain. There'll be a giant mix for it on my journal tomorrow. I'll probably link it to here.

**.**

The days went by, one by one.

It wasn't regret, per se. Ike didn't really think things over and kick himself for things he should've or shouldn't have done. He accepted them and moved on, because thinking and whining didn't do anything.

Ike stayed away as he had promised. Time passed by in a slow, boring succession. He kept looking behind him for a thin, tiny figure making his way through the crowd, but he never saw him. Ike gave him space, and didn't camp out at his door or work, but there was never even a thought of staying away permanently. How long that would take was swept up in rehearsals and issues at work which kept him late.

Soren left sometime later–Ike hadn't quite kept track of the days–He only found it out through a comment of Ranulf's. Somehow it seemed to make the end of their friendship, almost love–whatever it was–even more final.

**.**

Soren wasn't entirely sure why his professor had called him here. Mr. Kilvas looked wise beyond his considerable years. As it was, this professor was passable enough, but Soren wasn't in the mood for anyone. He'd tried to quit College Beats, because writing about another concert of _Steal This Band_was the last thing he wanted to do now. However, he'd essentially just been given a break for a while. Marcia could be quite persistent; years of pulling her brother out of seedy gambling establishments had taught her that, if anything.

"You seem especially cynical about heroes," His professor said. He leaned on his cane, and looked appraisingly over Soren.

"It was an essay," Soren said flatly. "But, yes, I do find heroes anything but heroic."

His professor's eyes crinkled at the corners. "All legends start from a grain of truth."

"Arthur himself is an example," Soren said. "The stories of gods and heroes...they're just feeding on mankind's innate instinctual fears of death."

"They're human, yes. Stories often file off the flaws, or exaggerate them. But they are heroic in what they inspire within us," his professor said.

"In walking home, in worrying, in small, unnoticed things like songs written..." Soren said, his voice trailing off thoughtfully.

"What?" The professor said, inclining his ear. "My ears aren't as good as they used to be."

Soren shook his head. "Nothing...it's nothing."

He gathered his things and mumbled something about seeing him after the break. Professor Kilvas nodded.

"See you then, boy. I hope you can find some hero to make you reconsider your views."

"Will it affect my grade?" Soren asked.

"Of course not. Your dissertation was well researched...well written. But everyone needs a hero in their life. Mine is my wonderful king, and his lovely wife. Do you want to see a picture?"

"I'll pass," Soren said. He picked up his books and gave a curt nod to Professor Kilvas. "Until later, then."

"Be seeing you," Professor Kilvas said absently. He was already happily looking through a whole scrapbook–presumably of photos of his beloved king and queen.

**.**

Ike had noticed that his family had been treating him as if he might break down at any minute, which was to Ike, downright confusing. He hadn't broken down when his father had died, even through that dark time when he had wanted to track down the killer and avenge him, he had been himself, and nothing more.

Tonight, it seemed Ranulf was doing the duty of trying to cheer him up. Ranulf handed him a beer from the cooler he had brought, and patted Ike on the back. "First loves rarely work out. It was a good learning experience, but maybe this time you can go for someone who isn't a paranoid bitch."

"I'm not giving up," Ike said.

"Uh, Ike? I know it looks sweet in romantic comedies and all, but in real life that's called _stalking _and generally not considered a good thing."

He took a sip of beer and shook his head. "Maybe all watching all this _How I Met Your Mother_ was bad for you. Next thing you'll be stealing a blue horn and try and make it rain."

"Hmmm, I could..."

"Oh no, I've created a monster," Ranulf said with mock horror.

"I'm kidding." Ike clapped him on the shoulder. He continued on a more thoughtful, solemn note. "Flowers wouldn't work on him. He doesn't fall for stuff like that. Maybe that's why I love him."

He'd never really thought of it this way–the reason why. He simply did. Had confusion at his state, and concern for Soren not held him back, he would've confessed the minute the feelings arose. That was just the way he was. Thoughts barely crossed his mind before he was saying them and Titania was looking at him like he put his foot in his mouth again.

"Flowers, huh? And here I thought it was his cute butt," Ranulf remarked.

Ike looked at him, one brow raised.

"What? I have eyes!" Ranulf said. "Kyza's is better, but his isn't half bad either."

Ike didn't comment on Soren's assets. He cleared his throat.

"It's weird...I sort of feel like I'm in one of those sad montages in a chick flick," Ike said.

"Funny of you to mention them. Mist has been on a mission with them, to you know, make the heartbreak better and all," Ranulf said.

"I _thought _there'd been more chick flicks than usual," Ike said. "It was like a Meg Ryan and Julia Roberts convention in here."

"Look on the bright side: At least they're hot?"

Ike looked blankly at him.

"Right, right, I forgot. You only go for angry hipster boys."

Ike shrugged and finished the rest of his beer. "I'm off to practice a little more. You coming?"

"Nah, I don't want to make my fingers bleed, thank you very much. But good luck on those new callouses."

Ike gave a mock salute and walked off, not even a little tipsy. In fact, Ike had never gotten drunk or even very tipsy. Ranulf always was jealous of his alcohol limit. The worst of it was that he didn't even use his superpowers forof good or maybe for getting a lover. It was one thing Ranulf would never get about Ike.

**.**

Some found their ancestral homes comforting, but to Soren it was anything but. It was winter in Daein, as it often was. Even the summers were as cold as the winters in the southern countries. Everything was blanketed in snow and ice and the sky pulled over in fleecy grey clouds.

Soren tried to think where their tentative friendship had gone wrong and led them to _this_. It had been distant, and then somehow love had gotten in there and corroded them. Now things would be awkward.

Soren knew something about lust. The lust for power, the lust which had driven his parents together and turned to hate as the years went on. But love? Love was a thing of fiction. Nothing more, nothing less.

He couldn't say why he had let Ike stay around. No–it had been more than that. He'd even enjoyed Ike's company. Ike was open–he'd never seemed to have an agenda.

Or at least that's what Soren had thought, until he heard the song. It became so obvious then–the kindness, the invitations. Marcia's teasing had been spot on.

What was love but another form of using? Jealousy came from love. So-called love caused Troy to burn.

He put his earbuds in and turned to his playlist of The Smiths and The Cure. It'd gotten him through his teenage years, when he'd been even more temperamental, and for that, they felt like a welcome friend. He ignored his remaining papers, an oddity for sure, given he usually had it finished before the first three days of break. He, for all purposes, ignored his family and just drifted in a haze of Morrisey. It was hearing the song that broke him out of the haze. Beyond his mother's voice, turned shrill in anger, his brother's sad expression, or the portrait of his father above the dinner table. He frowned down at the MP3 player and realized he'd grabbed the wrong one. Ike had left his there–he remembered now, making the Morrisey playlists on Ike's MP3 player when he hadn't been looking that day in the coffee shop. Pressing the shuffle on his entire music library option made it turn straight towards the songs he didn't want to hear.

It was played with simply acoustics, a slow, gentle beat. It was a slow song, sung without any other accompaniment.

_"Close your eyes_  
_the world isn't so bad_  
_it's far away, far away_  
_and I'm here to stay_  
_I'm here to stay"_

The song was redundant, simplistic, and yet, it was charming in its own way. It was his own, a well wishing in clumsy words.

He listened to the end, and flipped through the playlist until he found the other song, the one Ike had been singing that very first night. The one that started it all.

_"I keep watching for her when I'm drinking coffee_  
_playin' chords_  
_and I'm wonderin' if she knows this song's about her_  
_and I'm writin' songs like I've never done before_  
_she looks up and all I can think is_  
_I'd really like to see her again  
_

His breath caught at the last. When Ike sang, there was an honesty to him, as if he were baring his soul. Without the first impulse of fear, he listened to the lyrics. Even through his cynical mindset, he couldn't find any trace of manipulation.

He'd been happy, he thought. A part of him hadn't even allowed himself to admit it, but he'd sought out Ike's companionship. He'd wanted to be closer without understanding this little growing thing inside him.

What happened next was impulsive in ways Soren had never been. He thought things out, often to excruciating detail. But Soren grabbed his laptop, his mission bag, his coat and his iPod and went out the door without even leaving a note goodbye. His mother would throw a fit over this, but he'd just have to deal with her histrionics later.

He'd have the entire flight to figure out what he'd say. If he waited for another second, he'd see all the inherent flaws in this plan and he'd never go through with it.

**.**

They'd been practicing for this festival for months. Ranulf could add 'freakishly well adjusted' to the list of things he was jealous of. Ike hadn't listened to the Ibetter off without he bitch/I mixtape Ranulf had loaned him at all. Ike just kept on living. It was his way, really. He had survived the deaths of his parents and he could survive this.

It was the biggest gig they'd landed so far. They were just opening for _Some Band You've Never Heard Of_ at Alt Festival. Before this it'd been bars and coffeehouses and a few minor fest–it was, as Ranulf put it, deliciously close to being mainstream sellouts. Ike was wearing the same suit he'd picked up with Soren the day at the thrift. It made the event to him, at least, a little somber. He adjusted his fedora, and didn't bother with his hair. They had a gig and the show must go on. He thought for sure Soren foist this festival off on Marcia. Soren had been at Daein at his home, he supposed. He didn't really blame Soren, all in all. If he'd been raised by Ashnard the Bloody, he'd probably freak out about love too. Still, there was this heavy feeling in his chest, not unlike the feeling when his parents had passed on.

Love was weird, something he didn't quite get. He'd figure it out eventually, and he wasn't giving up. Not yet.

As it was, he was focusing on his music. Ranulf figured they'd get a great mix of breakup songs out of it at the very least, but so far Ike hadn't written anything much. It was melodies he was busy with, but the words he couldn't quite find yet. When he had first seen Soren, the words had come so easily. Now, however, nothing came to mind. So he played until his fingers bled and worked and lived on. His days had been a little gloomier, but it wasn't anything he couldn't handle.

They were in back. Mist leaned up and gave Boyd a kiss for good luck, while Ranulf related a story to his favorite fans who had been kind enough to bring cold beer for later and hot coffee to make it through the show, and thus got free backstage passes. Ike was peering out at the crowd from a crack in the curtains.

Alt Fest was set in a historic park in Melior. There were strings of lights around the bandstand, the various fixtures such as benches, a pavilion for dining, and trees. He noticed in particular a glint of dark hair under a green beret under the arbor of lights formed in a domed pattern, like a gazebo. It was some ways off from the stage, but just close enough that he could catch sight of her person. He tried to brush it off a moment–he'd had plenty of these mistaken sightings, but the person turned, and he saw earbuds that the person was just taking out.

He didn't give it another thought before he acted. He pulled off his guitar and handed it to Ranulf.

"I'll be back in a bit," Ike said.

"But Ike, we go on in ten!" Ranulf called.

"Cover for me, then," Ike called back. Ike ran out the side door, pushing through the crowd to the arbor. He muttered a few Isorry, sorry about that/I and Icoming through/I, but mostly he just pushed them aside to clear a path. He didn't really have time to being stopping for apologies.  
The lights wove up the arbor, like vines. Soren was leaning, against it, his gaze above.

"You came..." Ike said.

"Yes," Soren said. "I came."

He didn't look at Ike, but just kept looking up at the top of the arbor.

"You just sort of disappeared there for a while. I was worried," Ike said.

"Family things," Soren said.

"Ah...I'm glad you're back," Ike said.

"You shouldn't be," Soren said. Soren closed his eyes. He held his arms around himself for a moment, as if he were particularly cold.

"Listen, I'm not going to apologize for what I said because it's how I feel. I'm sorry it made you uncomfortable, though. I didn't mean for that to happen. I hope we can still be friends, 'cause I really miss you."

Soren turned away, rested his hands on the side of the arbor, and looked out at the people still gathered for the concert.

"Why me? Out of all those people out there that you could choose...people who aren't anti-social and paranoid and cynical. Happy people who'd have accepted you right off..." Soren trailed off and shook his head. "It makes no sense."

Ike came a little closer until he was just beside Soren.

"I can't explain it either. I've never been like this before, but there's plenty of things. I think you're really smart and I like your frank way of looking at the world, and how you never go for the kind of bullshit a lot of the world does, but that doesn't explain it either. All I can say is that I _just do_."

"Hormones then," Soren said dismissively.

"Uh, most of my teen years was me wondering why the rest of my class was being idiots over girls. So I'm guessing hormones aren't a big factor here," Ike said.

Soren smiled, ever so slightly, but it didn't reach his eyes. "That sounds much like how I spent my teenage years."

Soren looked over the crowd. Ranulf was now on stage, relating an anecdote. He was just good enough to keep the people amused enough to wait a little longer. Ranulf did have that effect on people.

"Shouldn't you be going for your concert?"

"If you want me to, I'll go again. But, honestly, I think here is exactly where I need to be right now. They can wait a little longer."

Soren gave him a long, searching look. When he spoke, it was very softly.

"I'm no good at this...I was raised with Ashnard the Bloody. What would I know about love?" Soren said. "All I've ever been was a failed experiment...'love' was never in the equation." He shook his head and sighed. "I don't understand this...it doesn't fit the equations."

"I guess love isn't something you understand. It isn't rational or logical it's...just something deeper," Ike said. "I barely understand it myself."

"I don't_ like _things I don't understand," Soren said, bitterness rising in his voice. "If it can't work it logically or rationally then it belongs with outdated superstitions."

"Soren..." Ike said. He reached out to touch Soren's arm.

"He used to lock in rooms that smelled of death and wipe his bloodstained hands on me in hopes I'd gain some sort of innate warrior skill–a bloodlust. When my mother found me she'd shriek and cling to me until bones would break. Ribs, arms...she's quite strong and I was a fragile child. That-that's what I understand about love. That's...all I've ever known..."

There wasn't even a second's thought. His arms were about Soren and pulling him close. He did make an effort to be gentle, lest he remind Soren of what he'd been through. But he didn't let go, and Soren didn't struggle in his arms.

"You're not a bad person..." Soren said.

"I try not to be," Ike said.

Ike leaned close, his lips almost grazed Soren's forehead, and the red mark there. "If you don't want me, then push me away now, because in about two seconds I'm going to kiss you and I probably won't even feel it if you push me away."

"Then kiss me before I start going into all the logistics of how this is a bad idea," Soren said. He looked so fragile then. Wary and uncertain, but Ithere/I and trying to make sense of whatever this was between them. His hands were on Ike's arms, chin lifted and waited for him, and Ike was all too happy to comply. People out there were clapping, and Ike didn't know if it was for them or the story Ranulf had told, but he didn't really care. And so it was a bit clumsy, and so they hadn't figured it all out, but they were getting there.

After the kiss, Soren leaned his head against Ike's chest. Ike held him there, stroking his hair gently. Soren began to speak again, muffled against his the fabric of Ike's blazer.

"Your voice has a husky, sensual quality and you have an arresting and charismatic presence during shows," Soren said. "At points I daresay you're even heroic, though I always think I'm going to find the underlying selfishness, I find nothing but more goodwill. It's unsettling."

"Coming from you, that must be some compliment," Ike said.

"And I suppose..." Soren mumbled something that sounded like _your abs are rather nice_, but he wasn't exactly sure he heard it right.

"We don't have to label it we could just be...something. If you wanted to," Ike said. "We can take it slow."

"I hate labels," Soren said. " I'm certainly not 'fabulous'. I will never go to one of those clubs–straight or gay–"

"Nothing would change. Ok, some stuff would change, but we're not going partying with Kyza anytime soon, even if Ranulf begs us," Ike said.

"I must remind you that... dating me will have no affect towards my reviews and will not affect their content," Soren said.

Ike smiled. "I know."

"You really should go and preform," Soren said.

"Yeah," Ike said.

"But...come back afterwards?" Soren said. It seemed as if it had started as a statement, but Soren ended it as a plea, a question. Ike leaned in and stole one last, quick kiss.

"I'll be back, I promise," Ike said.

"I'll hold you to that," Soren said.

"Just remember," Ike called as he went back through the crowd. "This song's for you."

"I will," Soren said softly as he watched Ike go on stage to cheers. When Ike looked out, it was through the fans and to arbor, to the one person who had caught his eye, made him find the words to all the songs, and who had made him feel all the strange and crazy emotions he never knew life could offer.

The band sang old favorites, the newer favorite _Girl In The Beret_, a cover of Elton John and finished with _Soren's Lullaby_ as the finisher. All through the way, he and Soren were exchanging the first shy smiles, the first happy moments of whatever they had stumbled into together.


	5. Songs

Songs:

The Girl With The Beret.

I saw her across a room  
like an old time movie  
and there was somethin' like understanin'  
like seeing color the first time  
like saying "oh that"  
and "I know"  
and oh who knew  
who knew it'd  
be like this?

I confess, I've never seen the world this way  
I'm starting to think it's because I've never seen her before.

She was reading her book and looking so cynical  
and I wondered if it was Satre or Camus  
or all those other things  
I never really understood  
like this, like love  
like oh–

she's the girl in the beret and I can't seem to forget her  
she's everything I never knew  
I'm not sure what this is, but I'm learning  
(I'm learning, I'm learning...)

I keep watching for her when I'm drinking coffee  
playing chords  
and I'm wondering if she knows this song's about her  
and I'm writin' songs like I've never done before  
she looks up and all I can think is  
I'd really like to see her again

she's the girl in the beret and I can't seem to forget her  
she's everything I never knew  
I'm not sure what this is, but I'm learning  
(I'm learning, I'm learning...)

and I'm thinking of walking right up to her and  
saying things I've never said before  
making mixtapes and writing songs all for a girl  
someone out there who  
made me see all the world  
can be cracked up to be

she's the girl in the beret and I can't seem to forget her  
she's everything I never knew  
I'm not sure what this is, but I'm learning  
(I'm learning, I'm learning...)  
(fade)

Soren's Lullaby.

Close your eyes  
the world isn't so bad  
it's far away, far away  
and I'm here to stay  
I'm here to stay

Close your eyes  
curled up in sleepy clouds  
are moon and stars  
the night is ours  
I'm here to stay

Close your eyes  
the noise of the city is long gone  
and rest your head  
you're safe in my bed  
I'm here to stay

Close your eyes  
before the sun rises  
don't worry, I'm here  
shh, I'm near  
I'm here to stay


	6. Epilogue

Title: The Girl In The Beret (epilogue)  
Series: FE10  
Character/Pairing: Ike/Soren, Boyd/Mist, Ranulf  
Rating: PG-13  
Author's note: I didn't intend to continue this one, but I heard this remix of Ellie Goulding's cover of "Your Song" and it sowed the seeds of working on some closing scenes.

I had Jana beta the first chapter and this, so the "final" edition is finally here. I intend to keep doing this for a lot of stuff—if you pointed out anything, I'm not ignoring you, I just have a lot on my plate and so do my betas, so getting back to stuff can take a while.

Happy (belated) birthday, Sule! Without your encouragement, I probably would've never gotten around to finishing this.

**. **

Somewhere along the line, pianos began to be heavily featured in their new songs. It was like they'd become the hipster lovechild of Ben Folds Five and Thriving Ivory. They'd already had the demo tracks for their new album before Ike and Soren even hit the half-year anniversary.

(Of course, Mist reminded him, with a little help from Marcia. Ike never realized you had to keep half anniversaries, let alone anniversaries of first dates and first meetings. It was a good thing that Soren was like a walking notebook of facts, and never seemed to forget anything. Ike could never remember this stuff.)

Ranulf had joked that their latest album should be called _The Muse In The Beret_, but in the end, everyone settled on _Duets _because that's what the whole album really was. A lot of feelings and stuff, oh and pianos.

All of this coincided with about the time Soren started showing up wearing Ike's Queen shirt, and his faux leather bomber jacket.

_Just wait, one of these days Ike is going to come in wearing girlpants _Ranulf had quipped.

Soren had lifted one brow, with a murmur of _that'll be the day_.

He always loved it when Soren showed he actually had a sense of humor underneath it all.

**.**

They still weren't making it big, but Ike didn't care. He'd turned down a really good possibility at Royal records just to play the local route. Ranulf sometimes still complained about the loss of all that money–because really, to him hipsterdom was just another way to meet hot guys and girls. His deep dark secret was his 'vintage clothes' were actually designer he'd discreetly put through the wash to make it look more distressed.

Ike offered for him to go solo if he wanted, but unfortunately, a good deal of the cut was the owner's daughter's crush on Ike, so that was out. They did occasional shows, and picked up second jobs to cover the costs. So they weren't the next Death Cab For Cutie, but they didn't really want to be.

Ike was just content to play in smoky bars, in coffee shops and wherever else they'd have him. Parties were annoying, being famous only meant he'd get more stalkers, and he already had a really persistent one, which was more than enough, really.

He played because he liked the feel of his hand on the strings, on the keys, even on Soren which was its own kind of music. Because he didn't talk much, didn't express himself, but when he was singing it was like it was just him and his guitar. He found a sort of peace that made him forget the bad things in the world.

Once from Soren's notes on his next paper on some bard guy, Ike had caught the line _If music be the food of love, then play on _or something like that. It really stuck with him. He'd scrawled it over his guitar and it reminded him of Soren reading late into the night about ancient legends and myths and heroes.

**.**

In the end, Ike really did sell out–to Starbucks, as a part-time barista to supplement more funds for their latest equipment alongside his hardware store job. He'd have gone to The Listless Mourning, but he wasn't sure he could withstand slam poetry night on a regular basis. Or, you know, ever again.

Besides, with his employee discount, the coffee became almost reasonably priced, even if it still tasted burnt.

Ranulf, of course, didn't let him live it down for a minute. He strode on up on Ike's first day, a mischievous grin on his face.

"Seriously, Ike? I know you want to impress the hipster boys, but going as far as to work in a coffee shop?"

There was a sigh behind Ranulf before Ike could reply.

"The grammar in that sentence is flawed," Soren said. "There is no plural. It should be _boy_."

"Oh, hey, I didn't see you there," Ranulf said.

"He's good at that," Ike said.

"I'll take one coffee. Black," Soren said.

"I was kind of in line," Ranulf said, but it was said more with amusement than any real indignation.

"As far as I could tell, you were simply wasting everyone's time with idle chatter as usual," Soren said.

"That's me," Ranulf said, like 'idle chatterer' was a badge of honor.

"I can ring you up together," Ike said.

"I think this could be the start of something. First ringing up coffee together, then marathoning the super bowl. I can pay this round, maybe you can _bro _me?" Ranulf said. He held his fist up to bump. Soren glared and pointedly refused to bump his fist.

Ike gave him a pity bump, because it sucked to leave a guy hanging.

Soren walked off with his black bitter coffee, and Ranulf took his caramel macchiato. "One day, we'll all be bros and watching manly sports games together," he said.

"Good luck with that," Ike said.

Ike didn't mind the idea, even if Soren brought his book to read and barely paid attention to the great half-time show. Just having him there would be enough.

**.**

They'd finished the last practice, and were mostly just chilling. Well, Ranulf and Boyd were. Soren was Tolerating, like he usually did when Boyd and Ranulf were around. Ranulf was draped over the back of a folding chair, his chin resting on his hands. Boyd sat nearby, which left Ike with the loveseat they'd found at a thrift. It was painfully plaid, and so ironic no hipster would touch it, which of course meant that Ranulf snatched it right up and moved it in.

Mist sauntered in, her boots clacking on the floor as she did.

"Check out my new ensemble!"

Mist spun around, her white go-go boots matching her new white mini-dress. Unlike Marcia's, this one had a pleated bottom and a belted waist with a yellow applique flower on it.

"That _is_nice," Boyd said. She giggled and gave another spin just for him.

"You never told me your co-workers were so _cool_, Soren! Marica says she might even have room for another writer with graduation taking some of the staff away."

"I bet you'd do good at it," Ike said.

"And a pretty funny contrast compared to mister grumpy here," Boyd snickered.

Mist stuck her tongue out at him. He stuck it out back.

"When did we get invaded by five year olds?" Ike said.

They both stuck their tongues out at him in turn.

Mist lifted up the magazine. "Which reminds me—the newest review came out, I haven't read the ones up on Pitchfork yet, but Mia tells me they're almost all positive, except for Hipster Dan, who keeps saying you were better before you went big."

"We haven't gone big," Ike said.

"I think he means before more than two people knew about us," Mist said. "That, and Hipsterella, who said there was a glaring lack of cute girls in your band."

Ranulf snicked in the back, and Soren just rolled his eyes.

Mist puffed out her cheeks. "I'm not a cute girl, now?"

Boyd looked like he was going to make some kind of quip, but Soren interrupted him.

"Will it be worth the pain when she punches you in the stomach?"

Boyd closed his mouth.

"You weren't in the last promotional photos because you were taking the pictures, so maybe she missed you. She was mostly distracted by _Cute Gingham _last time, so she might not have seen our show much," Ike said.

"She'd better have," Mist said. "_Moving on!" _She unrolled the latest part of _College Beats_.

"Today, Soren is sitting out because he feels like his involvement in making this album would bias him, but mostly because Ispoilers/I the CD is all about him."

Ranulf let out a catcall, because it was pretty much the unspoken law that as the laguz guy in here, he had to be the one to do the catcalls.

"Furthermore, this song is all about the singer, Ike and the latest addition, Soren's big, gay, sparkly hipster love."

"...Sparkly?" Ike said.

"Don't ask, she embellishes everything," Soren said.

"If you want to make your big gay hipster love more sparkly, I could always lend you some of Kyza's body glitter for when he does shows," Ranulf said.

"It shows in a definite maturing of lyrics, and the piano adds a whole 'nother dimension to the songs, a softer one. Having a singer fall in–or out—of love certainly has made an effect on classic albums in the past, and this is no exception. They can also fall prey to an excess of saccharine–or so Soren would say here, but nope, this is my review so I have to report that it's all great! _Duets_ is a classic amongst the ranks of _Stars_'s _Set Yourself On Fire_, a near perfect album for a band which shows more and more promise every day. Will we hear more soon from this rising star of a band? I can only hope so."

"We got compared to _Stars_!" Ranulf lifted up his arm and Boyd let out a whoop. They high fived and Mist twirled around, the zine thrown up in the air.

Soren picked up the magazine and studied the points on the side. 4 out of 5. Soren himself had never doled out more than three grudging stars for any review, and that was a rare rating as it was.

"Hmmm."

"Something up?" Ike asked.

"I was just wondering what song made her deem it only a 4 out of 5," Soren said.

"Wait, wait, call the presses—Soren actually _liked_ an album for once," Ranulf said. "Now we _really _do have to party."

"We were going to party?" Boyd said.

"We just got a good review and Soren actually liked something other than Ike. I fully expect to see cows flying soon, and not just because Skrimir is playing with his food again," Ranulf said.

"I'll call the caterer and Marcia!"

"Why Marcia?" Ike said.

"Because she's the reason we're partying, so she should be invited, silly. Besides, she's my friend."

"When did that happen?" Ike said, more than a little perplexed. Last he'd heard, Mist had been ready to throw her tambourine at Marcia for flirting with Boyd.

"Since today, that's when! We bonded over what doofuses our brothers are," Mist said with a bright grin.

Ranulf broke out into laughter behind him. Ike didn't bother to reply to that one, and Mist apparently didn't expect it, as she was already running off. The room had emptied of everyone but Ike and Soren.

"Are you coming with us?" Ike asked.

"I don't party, Ike."

"Well, I don't party much either, but I should make a showing."

Ike basically showed up for the free food, stayed as long as he could stand with horrible club music, grabbed a beer and headed out. To be fair, _Vaseline Clubb_did ironically horrible remixes and covers of club music, but it still wasn't his thing.

"Besides, I need to review _Cute Gingham_'s new album."

There was a demo with a printout of the latest cover art on it, which had Hipsterella in cut-off jeans and a flannel shirt tied up at the bottom, high on her waist.

"The next zine isn't due for another month," Ike said.

"I never put anything off," Soren said.

"Do you do your homework before it's assigned?" Ike asked, remembering the macros Ranulf had gleefully sent him last night.

"I'm already working on an outline of my thesis and that isn't due for two more years. Does that answer your question?"

Ike smiled a bit at this, and leaned in to give him a kiss. Soren clutched at his jacket like he might fall over if he didn't. It was brief, considering everyone was waiting, but a promise that he'd be back. Soren seemed reluctant to let go, but Ike knew that if he stayed, Soren would never get to writing his review, because there'd be distractions and stuff.

Besides, there were mini-sausages, cheese slices and pepperoni pizza with his name on it.

Ike pulled off his bomber jacket. "Don't get too cold, okay? It's damp down here."

Soren nodded. "Yes, Ike."

He nearly got lost in the mass of the jacket, and with one last glance, Ike left for up the stairs.

**.**

Soren nestled deep down in the jacket. He practically swam in it, given the differences in their size. He fingers lingered over the keys. He'd had poor circulation all his life, and was always a little cold. But for the first time in his life, he was starting to be warm. Comfortable, even.

Maybe even happy?

Maybe. It wasn't a feeling he was used to. Like most things, he distrusted this new fragile emotion, thinking it would leave him weak. But Ike kept proving himself, supporting Soren through his fears. Any relationship was fallible, as he all too well knew.

He had fragments of the basis of his thesis in his mind. _The Archetype Of The Hero Of Legend And The Historical Basis Of The Hero From Ancient Times To Modern Times._

The title was still being finalized, as it was. The facts got muddled by the over and over repetition of _heroes are real, I know this because I met you_.

The album was too twangy for his taste, but even Soren had to admit that the folk-country fusion revitalized both genres and dug deep into the roots of bluegrass from bygone eras. The lyrics were simplistic, but catchy and not without their own sort of wit. Most of them were love songs, but that didn't affect his review. Soren didn't roll his eyes whenever a song about love came up anymore.

At least, not unless it was a horrible mainstream trash they purported to be 'music.'

Three stars, none of them grudging. One listen through was all that he needed to know. Fifteen minutes was all he needed to write up his review.

He was growing soft. Somehow he couldn't care that he was letting go of the bitterness that had marked his life.

_You're going to ruin my reputation as a ruthless reviewer, you know that_?

Oh well, he was assigned to review Brittany Piers's latest album, and that would certainly prove enough vitriol for no one to notice his moment of softness. In a few years he'd be done with _College Beats _and college itself.

There'd been openings for archivists at libraries in Melior and Sienne, but even the temptation of working in such well-stocked libraries wouldn't make him leave Ike's side.

Soren set his cd player aside. Ranulf and Marcia were endlessly teasing him for having an old-fashioned player which wasn't as ironic as a tape-deck or an 8 track player.

Soren never paid them any mind.

He sat on the piano bench, ignoring the booming sounds of _We Make The Hipsters Fall In Love (The Glitter Remix)_ playing live above with _Vaseline Clubb_. Soren could tell it from the opening riff because Ranulf played it so much.

Soren was good at tuning out what he didn't want to hear, having plenty of experience from dealing with his mother, his co-workers and the drunken frat boys who clogged up the streets like so much refuse when the weekends rolled around. He started on a new melody he'd been trying out in his mind, note to note of a tune. Nearly every song was now Soren's in some way, a nuance in lyric, or outright. When he'd first met Ike back then, he'd never have figured to take him for a talented lyricist. He wouldn't have taken Ike for a lot of things.

But he'd been proved wrong, hadn't he?

Soren pulled out a notebook from his duffle bag and put it up. A few jots of ink and he had improvised sheet music to work from. It was blank, but he began to fill in the notes as he tested out the keys, forming the melody that had been stuck in his head.

"Something up?" Ike said. He was holding a platter of food from above. Just enough for two. He set it down on one of the tables and sat down on the piano bench with Soren.

"Just thinking," Soren said.

Ike didn't press, didn't ask. He was good about this—letting Soren stew when he needed to, pressing him when he needed someone there. For someone so oblivious, Ike sure was intuitive about feelings. Or Soren's, at least.

Soren couldn't quite put into words what he was feeling. Something soft and warm—a settling. Like he'd found a safe haven, his own place, a real home.

Happiness? No, something more. Calmness? Perhaps. Satisfaction, well, yes, that was a given. But it was something more, something he never knew how to define because he'd never felt it before.

Love?

It was a word he'd hated most of his life, and considered a lie, a myth, a fairytale. And yet, he kept coming back to that cliched word which no longer made him irritated just at the mention. Perhaps that was the word he sought.

"Are you working on lyrics for that one?" Ike asked. He had crumbs on his face. Soren reached up and brushed them away.

"No...I'm thinking about just making it an instrumental."

Something to describe how he felt when Ike was spread out asleep and so calm and the room was quiet with nothing but their breathing, the feeling of Ike's coat around him, the smell of wood and coffee, of how Ike kept trying to find him, even when he was bitter and afraid and pushed him away.

Words couldn't say how thankful he was. But music spoke volumes.

"Like _Explosions In The Sky_? I think that'd be a great ender for the next album...or we could do an EP," Ike said.

Soren had something of a fondness for _Explosions In The Sky._ _Your Hand In Mine_ was included on the first mixtape Ike gave him, right after the acoustic live version of _Girl In The Beret _that Ike had played that concert.

"We could call it 'If Music Be The Food Of Love, Play On," Ike said.

"That's the quote you wrote on your guitar," Soren said.

"Yeah, I liked that one. I don't really get most of those bard quotes, they're too close to the ancient tongue for me, and I never was good at lessons about the ancient tongue. I like the sound of them when you read them aloud, though. They remind me of you," Ike said.

"There's editions translated into modern tongue alongside the original, with plenty of annotations. Would that work better?" Soren said.

"I'd like that," Ike said.

Soren touched a few more keys. The song was coming together in his mind. He wrote in a title at the top _Home._

It was all falling into place. Realization, happiness, feelings he couldn't say in words, but could find in song. Soren began to play the melody, a soft and calm piece that spoke of the shift within himself.

He only hoped Ike could listen to the in-between, find him now again as he had so many times before.

**.**

The macro Ike is referring to is hipster cat, of course.

The books Soren is referencing is The Spark's No Fear Shakespeare. I use them because they're the only Shakespeare in my library with annotations, and I love me some footnotes, especially when they're about ye olde ribald sex jokes.

Vaseline Clubb's song We Make The Hipsters Fall In Love is of course, an ironic remix of ke-dollar sign-ha's We R Who We R.


End file.
